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THE    HISTORY    OF 
SIR    RICHARD    CALMADY 


BY   THE    SAME    AUTHOR 

Thk  Wages  of  Six 

A  Counsel  of  Perfection 

Colonel  Enderby's  Wife 

Little  Peter 

The  Carissima 

The  Gateless  Barrier 


THE    HISTORY    OF 
SIR    RICHARD   CALMADY 

A    ROMANCE 


f  LUCAS    MALET   ^ 


SECOND   EDITION 


METHUEN   .'t   CO. 

36    ESSEX    STREET    W.C. 

LONDON 

1901 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE  CLOWN 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    ACQUAINTING   THE    READER   WITH    A    FAIR    DOMAIN    AND   THE 

MAKER  THEREOF  ......  I 

II.    GIVING    THE    VERY    EARLIEST    INFORMATION    OBTAINABLE    OF 

THE    HERO   OF   THIS    BOOK  .....  6 

III.  TOUCHING   MATTERS  CLERICAL  AND  CONTROVERSIAL     .  .         l8 

IV.  RAISING     PROBLEMS     WHICH      IT      IS     THE     PURPOSE     OF     THIS 

HISTORY   TO    RESOLVE    .  .  .  .  .  -23 

V.    IN  WHICH  JULIUS   MARCH    BEHOLDS   THE  VISION   OF   THE    NEW 

LIFE  ........         31 

VI.    ACCIDENT  OR   DESTINY,    ACCORDING   TO   YOUR   HUMOUR  .         40 

VII.    MRS.  WILLIAM   ORMISTON   SACRIFICES   A   WINE   GLASS   TO   FATE         52 

VIII.    ENTER   A   CHILD   OF   PROMISE        .  .  .  .  .62 

IX.    IN  WHICH    KATHERINE   CALMADY   LOOKS   ON    HER   SON  .  .         69 

X.    THE   BIRDS   OF  THE   AIR   TAKE   THEIR   BREAKFAST  .  .         76 

BOOK  II 
THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS 

I.    RECORDING   SO.ME   ASPECTS   OF   A   SMALL   PILGRI.m's    PROGRESS.         S5 
II,     IN    WHICH    OUR    HERO    IMPROVES    HIS    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH 

.MANY  THINGS — HIMSELF    INCLUDED     .  .  .  -95 

III.    CONCERNING    THAT    WHICH,    THANK    GOD,     HAPPENS    ALMOST 

E\'XRY    DAY  .......       107 

IV.    WHICH   SMELLS   VERY   VILELY   OF  THE  STABLE.  .  -117 

V.    IN     WHICH      DICKIE     IS     INTRODtrCED     TO     A     LITTLE     DANCER 

WITH    HLUSH-ROSES    IN    HER    HAT  ....       128 

V 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACK 

IV.    DEALING     WITH     MATTERS     OF     HEARSAY     AND     MATTERS     OF 

sroRT     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .518 

V.    TELLINC,     HOW    DICKIE    CAME    TO    UNTIE    A   CERTAIN    TAG   OF 

RUSTY,    BLACK    RIBBON.  .....       529 

VI.    A    LITANY   OF   THE   SACRED   HEART  ....       54O 

VII.    WHEREIN  TWO   ENEMIES  ARE  SEEN  TO   CRY  QUITS  .  .      550 

VIII.    CONCERNING     THE      BROTHERHOOD      FOUNDED      BY     RICHARD 

CALMADY,    AND   OTHER    MATTERS   OF   SOME    INTEREST  .       565 

IX.    TELLING    HOW   LUDOVIC    QUAYLE   AND    HONORIA   ST.    QUENTIN 

WATCHED  THE   TROUT   RISE    IN   THE   LONG   WATER     ,  .       574 

X.    CONCERNING    A     DAY    OF     HONEST    WARFARE     AND    A     SUNSET 

HARBINGER    NOT   OF   THE   NIGHT    BUT   OF   THE    DAWN  .       5S9 

XI.    IN    WHICH    RICHARD    CALMADY    BIDS     THE    LONG-SUFFERING 

READER   FAREWELL        .  .  .  .  .  .      61I 


THE    HISTORY    OF 
SIR    RICHARD    CALMADY 

BOOK    I 

THE     CLOWN 

CHAPTER     I 

ACQUAINTING    THE    READER    WITH    A    FAIR    DOMAIN    AND 
THE    MAKER   THEREOF 

IN  that  fortunate  hour  of  English  history,  when  the  cruel 
sights  and  haunting  insecurities  of  the  Middle  Ages  had 
passed  away,  and  while,  as  yet,  the  fanatic  zeal  of  Puritanism 
had  not  cast  its  blighting  shadow  over  all  merry  and  pleasant 
things,  it  seemed  good  to  one  Denzil  Calmady,  esquire,  to 
build  himself  a  stately  red-brick  and  freestone  house  upon  the 
southern  verge  of  the  great  plateau  of  moorland  which  ranges 
northward  to  the  confines  of  Windsor  Forest  and  eastward  to 
the  Surrey  Hills.  And  this  he  did  in  no  vainglorious  spirit, 
with  purpose  of  exalting  himself  above  the  county  gentlemen, 
his  neighbours,  and  showing  how  far  better  lined  his  pockets 
were  than  theirs.  Rather  did  he  do  it  from  an  honest  love  of 
all  that  is  ingenious  and  comely,  and  as  the  natural  outgrowth  of 
an  inquiring  and  philosophic  mind.  For  Denzil  Calmady,  like 
so  many  another  son  of  that  happy  age,  was  something  more 
than  a  mere  wealthy  country  squire,  breeder  of  beef  and  brewer 
of  ale.  He  was  a  courtier  and  traveller ;  and,  if  tradition 
speaks  truly,  a  poet,  who  could  praise  his  mistress's  many 
>  charms,  or  wittily  resent  her  caprices,  in  well-turned  verse.  He 
was  a  patron  of  art,  having  brought  back  ivories  and  bronzes 
from  Italy,  pictures  and   china  from  the  Low  Countries,   and 


2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

enamels  from  France.  He  was  a  student,  and  collected  the 
many  rare  and  handsome,  leather -bound  volumes  telling  of 
curious  arts,  obscure  speculations,  half- fabulous  histories, 
voyages,  and  adventures,  which  still  constitute  the  almost 
unique  value  of  the  Brockhurst  library.  He  might  claim  to 
be  a  man  of  science,  moreover — of  that  delectable  old-world 
science  which  has  no  narrow-minded  quarrel  with  miracle  or 
prodigy,  wherein  angel  and  demon  mingle  freely,  lending  a 
hand  unchallenged  to  complicate  the  operations  both  of  nature 
and  of  grace — a  science  which,  even  yet,  in  perfect  good  faith, 
busied  itself  with  the  mysteries  of  the  Rosy  Cross,  mixed 
strange  ingredients  into  a  possible  Elixir  of  Life,  ran  far  afield 
in  search  for  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  gathered  herbs  for  the 
confection  of  simples  during  auspicious  phases  of  the  moon, 
and  beheld  in  comet  and  meteor  awful  forewarnings  of  public 
calamity  or  of  Divine  Wrath. 

From  all  of  which  it  may  be  premised  that  when,  like  the 
wise  king,  of  old,  in  Jerusalem,  Denzil  Calmady  "builded  him 
houses,  made  him  gardens  and  orchards,  and  planted  trees 
in  them  of  all  kind  of  fruits,"  when  he  "made  him  pools 
of  water  to  water  therewith  the  wood  that  bringe  forth  trees," 
when  he  "gathered  silver  and  gold,  and  the  treasure  of  pro- 
vinces," and  got  him  singers,  and  players  of  musical  instruments, 
and  "  the  delights  of  the  sons  of  men," — he  did  so  that,  having 
tried  and  sifted  all  these  things,  he  might,  by  the  exercise  of  a 
ripe  and  untrammelled  judgment,  decide  what  amongst  them  is 
illusory  and  but  a  passing  show,  and  what— be  it  never  so 
small  a  remnant — has  in  it  the  promise  of  eternal  subsistence, 
and  therefore  of  vital  worth ;  and  that,  having  so  decided  and 
thus  gained  an  even  mind,  he  might  prepare  serenely  to  take 
leave  of  the  life  he  had  dared  so  largely  to  live. 

Commencing  his  labours  at  Brockhurst  during  the  closing 
years  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Denzil  Calmady  com- 
pleted them  in  1611  with  a  royal  house-warming.  For  the 
space  of  a  week,  during  the  autumn  of  that  year, — the  last  autumn, 
as  it  unhappily  proved,  that  graceful  and  scholarly  prince  was 
fated  to  see, — Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  condescended  to  be  his 
guest.  He  was  entertained  at  Brockhurst— as  contemporary 
records  inform  the  curious — with  "  much  feastinge  and  many 
joyous  masques  and  gallant  pastimes,"  including  "a  great  slay- 
inge  of  deer  and  divers  beastes  and  fowl  in  the  woods  and  coverts 
thereunto  adjacent."  It  is  added,  with  unconscious  irony,  that 
his  host,  being  a  "true  lover  of  all  wild  creatures,  had  caused  a 
fine  bear-pit  to  be  digged  beyond  the  outer  garden  wall  to  the 


THE  CLOWN  3 

west."  And  that,  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  of  the  Prince's  visit, 
there  "was  held  a  most  mighty  baitinge,"  to  witness  which 
"many  noble  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood  did  visit  Brock- 
hurst  and  lay  there  two  nights." 

Later  it  is  reported  of  Denzil  Calmady,  who  was  an  excellent 
churchman, — suspected  even,  notwithstanding  his  little  turn  for 
philosophy,  of  a  greater  leaning  towards  the  old  Mass-Book  than 
towards  the  modern  Book  of  Common  Prayer, — that  he  notably 
assisted  Laud,  then  Bishop  of  St.  David's,  in  respect  of  certain 
dehcate  diplomacies.  Laud  proved  not  ungrateful  to  his 
friend ;  who,  in  due  time,  was  honoured  with  one  of  King 
James's  newly  instituted  baronetcies,  not  to  mention  some  few 
score,  seedling,  Scotch  firs,  which,  taking  kindly  to  the  light, 
moorland  soil,  increased  and  multiplied  exceedingly  and  sowed 
themselves  broadcast  over  the  face  of  the  surrounding  country. 

And,  save  for  the  vigorous  upgrowth  of  those  same  fir  trees, 
and  for  the  fact  that  bears  and  bear-pit  had  long  given  place  to 
racehorses  and  to  a  great  square  of  stable-buildings  in  the  hollow 
lying  back  from  the  main  road  across  the  park,  Brockhurst  was 
substantially  the  same,  in  the  year  of  grace  1842,  when  this 
truthful  history  actually  opens,  as  it  had  been  when  Sir  Denzil's 
workmen  set  the  last  tier  of  bricks  of  the  last  twisted  chimney- 
stack  in  its  place.  The  grand,  simple  masses  of  the  house — 
Gothic  in  its  main  lines,  but  with  much  of  Renaissance  work  in 
its  details — still  lent  themselves  to  the  same  broad  effects  of  light 
and  shadow,  as  it  crowned  the  southern  and  western  sloping 
hillside  amid  its  red-walled  gardens  and  pepper-pot  summer- 
houses,  its  gleaming  ponds  and  watercourses,  its  hawthorn 
dotted  paddocks,  its  ancient  avenues  of  elm,  of  lime,  and  oak. 
The  same  panellings  and  tapestries  clothed  the  walls  of  its 
spacious  rooms  and  passages.  The  same  quaint  treasures 
adorned  its  fine  Italian  cabinets.  The  same  air  of  large  and 
generous  comfort  pervaded  it.  As  the  child  of  true  lovers  is 
said  to  bear  through  life,  in  a  certain  glad  beauty  of  person 
and  of  nature,  witness  to  the  glad  hour  of  its  conception,  so 
P^rockhurst,  on  through  the  accumulating  years,  still  bore  witness 
to  the  fortunate  historic  hour  in  which  it  was  planned. 

Yet,  since  in  all  things  material  and  mortal  there  is  always  a 
little  spot  of  darkness,  a  germ  of  canker,  at  least  the  echo  of  a 
cry  of  fear — lest  life  being  too  sweet,  man  should  grow  jiroud  to 
the  point  of  forgetting  he  is,  after  all,  but  a  pawn  ui)on  the 
board,  but  the  sport  and  plaything  of  destiny  and  the  vast 
purposes  of  (iod — all  was  not  c|uite  well  with  Jircjckhurst.  At  a 
given  moment  of  time,  the  diabolic  element  had  of  necessity 


4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

intruded  itself.  And,  in  the  chronicles  of  this  delightful 
dwelling-place,  even  as  in  those  of  Eden  itself,  the  angels  are 
proven  not  to  have  had  things  altogether  their  own  gracious 
way. 

The  pierced  stone  parapet,  which  runs  round  three  sides  of 
the  house  and  constitutes  architecturally  one  of  its  most  note- 
worthy features,  is  broken  in  the  centre  of  the  north  front  by  a 
tall,  stepped  and  sharply  pointed,  gable,  flanked  on  either  hand 
by  slender,  four-sided  pinnacles.  From  the  niche  in  the  said 
gable,  arrayed  in  sugarloaf  hat,  full  doublet  and  trunk  hose, 
his  head  a  trifle  bent  so  that  the  tip  of  his  pointed  beard  rests 
on  the  pleatings  of  his  marble  ruff,  a  carpenter's  rule  in  his  right 
hand.  Sir  Denzil  Calmady  gazes  meditatively  down.  Delicate, 
coral-like  tendrils  of  the  Virginian  creeper,  which  covers  the 
house  walls  and  strays  over  the  bay-windows  of  the  Long  Gallery 
below,  twine  themselves  yearly  about  his  ankles  and  his  square- 
toed  shoes.  The  swallows  yearly  attempt  to  fix  their  grey,  mud 
nests  against  the  flutings  of  the  scallop-shell  canopy  sheltering 
his  bowed  head ;  and  are  yearly  ejected  by  cautious  gardeners, 
armed  with  imposing  array  of  ladders  and  conscious  of  no 
little  inward  reluctance  to  face  the  dangers  of  so  aerial  a 
height. 

And  here,  it  may  not  be  unfitting  to  make  further  mention 
of  that  same  little  spot  of  darkness,  germ  of  canker,  echo  of  the 
cry  of  fear,  that  had  come  to  mar  the  fair  records  of  Brockhurst. 
For  very  certain  it  was  that  among  the  varying  scenes,  moving 
merry  or  majestic,  upon  which  Sir  Denzil  had  looked  down 
during  the  two  and  a  quarter  centuries  of  his  sojourn  in  the 
lofty  niche  of  the  northern  gable,  there  was  one  his  eyes  had 
never  yet  rested  upon — one  matter,  and  that  a  very  vital  one,  to 
which,  had  he  applied  his  carpenter's  rule,  the  measure  of  it  must 
have  proved  persistently  and  grievously  short. 

Along  the  straight  walks,  across  the  smooth  lawns,  and 
beside  the  brilliant  flower-borders  of  the  formal  gardens,  he 
had  seen  generations  of  babies  toddle  and  stagger,  with  gurglings 
of  delight,  as  they  clutched  at  glancing  bird  or  butterfly  far  out 
of  reach.  He  had  seen  healthy,  clean-limbed,  boisterous  lads 
and  dainty,  little  maidens  laugh  and  play,  quarrel,  kiss,  and  be 
friends  again.  He  had  seen  ardent  lovers — in  glowing  June 
twilights,  while  the  nightingales  shouted  from  the  laurels,  or 
from  the  coppices  in  the  park  below  —  driven  to  the  most 
desperate  straits,  to  visions  of  cold  poison,  of  horse- pistols, 
of  immediate  enlistment,  or  the  consoling  arms  of  Betty  the 
housemaid,   by  the  coquetries  of  some  young  lady  captivating 


THE  CLOWN  5 

in  powder  and  patches,  or  arrayed  in  the  high-waisted,  agree- 
ably-revealing costume  which  our  grandmothers  judged  it  not 
improper  to  wear  in  their  youth.  He  had  seen  husband  and 
wife,  too,  wandering  hand  in  hand  at  first,  tenderly  hopeful 
and  elate.  And  then,  sometimes,  as  the  years  lengthened, — 
growing  somewhat  sated  with  the  ease  of  their  high  estate, — he 
had  seen  them  hand  in  hand  no  longer,  waxing  cold  and  in- 
different, debating  even,  at  moments,  reproachfully  whether  they 
might  not  have  invested  the  capital  of  their  affections  to  better 
advantage  elsewhere. 

All  this,  and  much  more.  Sir  Denzil  had  seen,  and  doubtless 
measured,  for  all  that  he  appeared  so  immovably  calm  and  apart. 
But  that  which  he  had  never  yet  seen  was  a  man  of  his  name  and 
race,  full  of  years  and  honours,  come  slowly  forth  from  the  stately 
house  to  sun  himself,  morning  or  evening,  in  the  comfortable 
shelter  of  the  high,  red-brick,  rose-grown,  garden  walls. — Looking 
the  while,  with  the  pensive  resignation  of  old  age,  at  the  goodly, 
wide-spreading  prospect.  Smiling  again  over  old  jokes,  warming 
again  over  old  stories  of  prowess  with  horse  and  hound,  or  rod 
and  gun.  Feeling  the  eyes  moisten  again  at  the  memory  of  old 
loves,  and  of  those  far-away  first  embraces  which  seemed  to  open 
the  gates  of  paradise  and  create  the  world  anew  ;  at  remembrances 
of  old  hopes  too,  which  proved  still-born,  and  of  old  distresses, 
which  often  enough  proved  still-born  likewise, — the  whole  of 
these  simplified  now,  sanctified,  the  tumult  of  them  stilled,  along 
with  the  hot,  young  blood  which  went  to  make  them,  by  the 
kindly  torpor  of  increasing  age  and  the  approaching  footsteps 
of  greatly  reconciling  Death. 

For  Sir  Denzil's  male  descendants,  one  and  all, — so  says 
tradition,  so  say  too  the  written  and  printed  family  records,  the 
fine  monuments  in  the  chancel  of  Sandyfield  church,  and  more 
than  one  tombstone  in  the  yew-shaded  churchyard, — have  dis- 
played a  disquieting  incapacity  for  living  to  the  permitted  "three- 
score years  and  ten" —  let  alone  fourscore — and  dying  decently, 
in  ordinary,  commonplace  fashion,  in  their  beds.  Mention  is 
made  of  casualties  surprising  in  nunil>cr  and  variety;  and  not 
always,  it  must  be  owned,  to  the  moral  credit  of  those  who 
suffered  them.  It  is  told  how  Sir  Thomas,  grandson  of  Sir 
Denzil,  died  miserably  of  gangrene,  caused  by  a  tear  in  the  arm 
from  the  antler  of  a  wounded  buck.  How  his  nephew  Zachary 
— who  succeeded  him — was  stabljcd,  during  a  drunken  brawl,  in 
an  eating-house  in  the  Strand.  How  the  brother  of  the  said 
Zachary,  a  gallant,  young  soldier,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of 
Kamillies  in   1706.     Duelling,  lightning  during  a  summer  storm, 


6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

even  the  blue-brown  waters  of  the  Brockhurst  Lake,  in  turn  claim 
a  victim.  Later  it  is  told  how  a  second  Sir  Denzil,  after  hard 
fighting  to  save  his  purse,  was  shot  by  highwaymen  on  Bagshot 
Heath,  when  riding  with  a  couple  of  servants — not  notably 
distinguished,  as  it  would  appear,  for  personal  valour  —  from 
Brockhurst  up  to  town. 

Lastly  comes  Courtney  Calmady,  who,  living  in  excellent 
repute  until  close  upon  sixty,  seemed  destined  by  Providence  to 
break  the  evil  chain  of  the  family  fate.  But  he  too  goes  the 
way  of  all  flesh,  suddenly  enough,  after  a  long  run  with  the 
hounds,  owing  to  the  opening  of  a  wound,  received  when  he 
was  little  more  than  a  lad,  at  the  taking  of  Frenchtown  under 
General  Proctor,  during  the  second  American  war.  So  he  too 
died,  and  they  buried  him  with  much  honest  mourning,  as 
befitted  so  kindly  and  honourable  a  gentleman ;  and  his  son 
Richard — of  whom  more  hereafter — reigned  in  his  stead. 


CHAPTER  II 

CxmXG    THK    VERY    EARLIEST    IXFORMATION    OBTAIKABLE    OF 
THE    HERO    OF    THIS    BOOK 

IT  happened  in  this  way,  towards  the  end  of  August  1842. 
In  the  grey  of  the  summer  evening,  as  the  sunset  faded  and 
the  twilight  gathered,  spreading  itself  tenderly  over  the  pastures 
and  cornfields, — over  the  purple-green  glooms  of  the  fir  forest — 
over  the  open  moors,  whose  surface  is  scored  for  miles  by  the 
turf-slane  of  the  cottager  and  squatter — over  the  clear,  brown 
streams  that  trickle  out  of  the  pink  and  emerald  mosses  of  the 
peat-bogs,  and  gain  volume  and  vigour  as  they  sparkle  away  by 
woodside,  and  green-lane,  and  village  street  —  and  over  those 
secret,  bosky  places,  in  the  heart  of  the  great  common-lands, 
where  the  smooth,  white  stems  and  glossy  foliage  of  the  self-sown 
hollies  spring  up  between  the  roots  of  the  beech  trees,  where 
plovers  cry,  and  stoat  and  weazel  lurk  and  scamper,  while  the 
old  poacher's  lean,  ill-favoured,  rusty-coloured  lurcher  picks  up  a 
shrieking  hare,  and  where  wandering  bands  of  gypsies — those 
lithe,  onyx-eyed  children  of  the  magic  East— still  pitch  their 
dirty,  little,  fungus-like  tents  around  the  camp  fire, — as  the 
sunset  died  and  the  twilight  thus  softly  widened  and  deepened. 
Lady  Calmady  found  herself,  for  the  first  time  during  all  the 
long  summer  day,  alone. 


THE  CLOWN  7 

For,  thoifgh  no  royal  personage  had  graced  the  occasion  with 
his  presence,  nor  had  bears  suffered  martyrdom  to  promote 
questionably  amiable  mirth,  Brockhurst,  during  the  past  week, 
had  witnessed  a  series  of  festivities  hardly  inferior  to  those 
which  marked  Sir  Denzil's  historic  house-warming.  Young  Sir 
Richard  Calmady  had  brought  home  his  bride,  and  it  was  but 
fitting  the  whole  countryside  should  see  her.  So  all  and  sundry 
received  generous  entertainment  according  to  their  degree. — 
Labourers,  tenants,  school  -  children.  Weary  old  -  age  from 
Pennygreen  poorhouse,  taking  its  pleasure  of  cakes  and  ale  half 
suspiciously  in  the  broad  sunshine.  The  leading  shopkeepers 
of  Westchurch,  and  their  humbler  brethren  from  Farley  Row. 
All  the  country  gentry  too. — Lord  and  Lady  Fallowfeild  and  a 
goodly  company  from  Whitney  Park,  Lord  Denier  and  a  large 
contingent  from  Grimshott  Place,  the  Cathcarts  of  Newlands, 
and  many  more  persons  of  undoubted  consequence — specially 
perhaps  in  their  own  eyes.  Not  to  mention  a  small  army 
of  local  clergy  —  who  ever  display  a  touching  alacrity  in 
attending  festivals,  even  those  of  a  secular  character — with 
camp-followers,  in  the  form  of  wives  and  families,  galore. 

And  now,  at  last,  all  was  over, — balls,  sports,  theatricals, 
dinners — the  last,  in  the  case  of  the  labourers,  with  the  unlovely 
adjunct  of  an  ox  roasted  whole.  Even  the  final  garden-party, 
designed  to  include  such  persons  as  it  was,  socially  speaking,  a 
trifle  difficult  to  place — Image,  owner  of  the  big  Shotover 
brewery,  for  instance,  who  was  shouldering  his  way  so  vigor- 
ously towards  fortune  and  a  seat  on  the  bench  of  magistrates ; 
the  younger  members  of  the  firm  of  Goteway  &  Fox, 
solicitors  of  Westchurch  ;  Goodall,  the  Methodist  miller  from 
Parson's  Holt,  and  certain  sporting  yeoman  farmers  with  their 
comely  womankind — even  this  final  entertainment,  with  all  its 
small  triumphs  and  heart  -  burnings,  flutterings  of  youthful 
inexperience,  aspirations,  condescensions,  had  gone,  like  the 
rest  of  the  week's  junketings,  to  swell  the  sum  of  things 
accomplished,  of  all  that  which  is  past  and  done  with  and  will 
never  come  again. 

Fully  an  hour  ago,  Dr.  Knott,  under  plea  of  waiting 
cases,  had  hitched  his  ungainly,  thick-set  figure  into  his  high  gig. 
"  Plenty  of  fine  folks,  eh,  Timothy  ?  "  he  said  to  the  fcrrct-faced 
groom  beside  him,  as  he  gathered  up  the  ruins,  and  the  brown 
mare,  knowing  the  hand  on  her  mouth,  laid  herself  out  to  her 
work.  "  Handsome  young  couple  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see. 
Not  much  business  doing  there  for  me,  I  fancy,  unless  it  lies  in 
the  nursery  line." 


8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Say  those  Brockhurst  folks  mostly  dies  airly  though," 
remarked  Timothy,  with  praiseworthy  effort  at  professional 
encouragement. 

"  Eh  !  so  you've  heard  that  story  too,  have  you  ?  " — and  John 
Knott  drew  the  lash  gently  across  the  hollow  of  the  mare's  back. 

"  This  'ere  Sir  Richard's  the  third  baronet  I've  a-seen,  and  I 
bean't  so  very  old  neither." 

The  doctor  looked  down  at  the  spare  little  man  with  a  certain 
snarling  affection,  as  he  said  : — "  Oh  no  !  I'm  not  kept  awake  o' 
nights  by  the  fear  of  losing  you,  Timothy.  Your  serviceable  old 
carcass '11  hang  together  for  a  good  while  yet." — Then  his  rough 
eyebrows  drew  into  a  line,  and  he  stared  thoughtfully  down  the 
long  space  of  the  clean  gravel  road  under  the  meeting  branches 
of  the  lime  trees. 

The  Whitney  char  a  bancs  had  driven  ofif  but  a  few  minutes 
later,  to  the  admiration  of  all  beholders;  yet  not,  it  must  be 
admitted,  without  a  measure  of  inward  perturbation  on  the  part 
of  that  noble  charioteer.  Lord  Fallowfeild.  Her  Ladyship  was 
constitutionally  timid,  and  he  was  none  too  sure  of  the  behaviour 
of  his  leaders  in  face  of  the  string  of  very  miscellaneous  vehicles 
waiting  to  take  up.  However,  the  illustrious  party  happily  got 
off  without  any  occasion  for  Lady  Fallowfeild's  screaming. 
Then  the  ardour  of  departure  became  universal,  and  in  broken 
procession  the  many  carriages,  phaetons,  gigs,  traps,  pony-chaises 
streamed  away  from  Brockhurst  House,  north,  south,  and  east, 
and  west. 

Lady  Calmady  had  bidden  her  guests  farewell  at  the  side-door 
opening  on  to  the  terrace,  before  they  passed  through  the  house 
to  the  main  entrance  in  the  south  front.  Last  to  go,  as  he  had 
been  first  to  come,  was  that  worthy  person,  Thomas  Caryll,  the 
rector  of  Sandyfield.  Mild,  white-haired,  deficient  in  chin,  he 
had  a  natural  leaning  towards  women  in  general,  and  towards 
those  of  the  upper  classes  in  particular,  Katherine  Calmady's 
radiant  youth,  her  courtesy,  her  undeniable  air  of  distinction,  and 
a  certain  gracious  gaiety  which  belonged  to  her,  had,  combined 
with  unaccustomed  indulgence  in  claret  cup,  gone  far  to  turn 
the  good  man's  head  during  the  afternoon.  Regardless  of  the 
slightly  flustered  remonstrances  of  his  wife  and  daughters,  he 
lingered,  expending  himself  in  innocently  confused  compliment, 
supplemented  by  prophecies  regarding  the  blessings  destined  to 
descend  upon  Brockhurst  and  the  mother  parish  of  Sandyfield 
in  virtue  of  Lady  Calmady's  advent. 

But  at  length  he  also  departed.  Katherine  waited,  her  eyes 
full  of  laughter,  until  Mr.  Caryll's  footsteps  died  away  on  the 


THE  CLOWN  9 

stone  quarries  of  the  great  hall  within.  Then  she  gently  drew 
the  heavy  door  to,  and  stepped  out  on  to  the  centre  of  the 
terrace.  The  grass  slopes  of  the  park^ — dotted  with  thorn  trees 
and  beds  of  bracken, — the  lime  avenue  running  along  the  ridge 
of  the  hill,  the  ragged  edge  of  the  fir  forest  to  the  east,  and  the 
mass  of  the  house,  all  these  were  softened  to  a  vagueness — as  the 
landscape  in  a  dream — by  the  deepening  twilight.  An  immense 
repose  pervaded  the  whole  scene.  It  afiected  Katherine  to  a 
certain  seriousness.  Social  excitements  and  responsibilities, 
the  undoubted  success  that  had  attended  her  maiden  essay  as 
hostess  during  the  past  week,  shrank  to  trivial  proportions. 
Another  order  of  emotion  arose  in  her.  She  became  sensible 
of  a  necessity  to  take  counsel  with  herself. 

She  moved  slowly  along  the  terrace,  paused  in  the  arcaded 
garden-hall  at  the  end  of  it — the  carven  stone  benches  and  tables 
of  which  showed  somewhat  ghostly  in  the  dimness — to  put  off 
her  bonnet  and  push  back  the  lace  scarf  from  her  shoulders. 
An  increasing  solemnity  was  upon  her.  There  were  things  to 
think  of — things  deep  and  strange.  She  must  needs  place  them, 
make  an  effort,  anyhow,  to  do  so.  And,  in  face  of  this  necessity, 
came  an  instinct  to  rid  herself  of  all  small  impeding  convention- 
alities even  in  the  matter  of  dress.  For  there  was  in  Katherine 
that  inherent  desire  of  harmony  with  her  surroundings,  that 
natural  sense  of  fitness,  which — given  certain  technical  aptitudes 
• — goes  to  make  a  great  dramatic  artist.  But,  since  in  her  case 
such  technical  aptitudes  were  either  non-existent  or  wholly 
latent,  it  followed  that,  save  in  nice  questions  of  private 
honour,  she  was  quite  the  least  self-conscious  and  self-critical  of 
human  beings.  Now,  as  she  passed  out  under  the  archway  on 
to  the  square  lawn  of  the  troco-ground,  bare-headed,  in  her  pale 
dress,  a  sweet  seriousness  filling  all  her  mind,  even  as  the  sweet, 
summer  twilight  filled  all  the  valley  and  veiled  the  gleaming 
surface  of  the  Long  Water  far  below,  she  felt  wholly  in  sympathy 
with  the  aspect  and  sentiment  of  the  place.  Indeed  it  appeared 
to  her,  just  then,  that  the  four  months  of  her  marriage,  the  five 
months  of  her  engagement,  even  the  twenty-two  years  which 
made  up  all  the  sum  of  her  earthly  living,  were  a  prelude 
merely  to  the  present  hour  and  to  that  which  lay  immediately 
ahead. 

Yet  the  prelude  had,  in  truth,  been  a  pretty  enough  piece  of 
music.  Katherine's  experience  had  but  few  black  patches  in  it 
as  yet.  Furnished  with  a  fair  and  healthy  body,  with  fine  breed- 
ing, with  a  character  in  which  the  pride  and  grit  of  her  North 
Country  ancestry  were  tempered  by  the  poetic  instincts  and  quick 


lo  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

wit  which  came  to  her  with  her  mother's  Irish  blood,  Katherine 
Ormiston  started  better  furnislied  than  most  to  play  the  great 
game  that  all  are  bound  to  play — whether  they  will  or  no — with 
fate.  Mrs.  Ormiston,  still  young  and  beloved,  had  died  in  bring- 
ing this,  her  only  daughter,  into  the  world ;  and  her  husband  had 
looked  somewhat  coldly  upon  the  poor  baby  in  consequence. 
There  was  an  almost  misanthropic  vein  in  the  autocratic  land- 
owner and  iron-master.  He  had  three  sons  already,  and  therefore 
found  but  little  use  for  this  woman-child.  So,  while  pluming 
himself  on  his  clear  judgment  and  unswerving  reason,  he  resented, 
most  unreasonably,  her  birth,  since  it  took  his  wife  from  him. 
Such  is  the  irony  of  things,  forever  touching  man  on  the  raw, 
proving  his  weakness  in  that  he  holds  his  strongest  point !  In 
fact,  however,  Katherine  suffered  but  slightly  from  the  poor 
welcome  that  greeted  her  advent  in  the  grey,  many-towered  house 
upon  the  Yorkshire  coast.  For  her  great-aunt,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin, 
speedily  gathered  the  small  creature  into  her  still  beautiful  arms, 
and  lavished  upon  it  both  tenderness  and  wealth,  along — as  it 
grew  to  a  companionable  age — with  the  wisdom  of  a  mind  ripened 
by  wide  acquaintance  with  men  and  with  public  affairs.  Mrs. 
St.  Quentin^famous  in  Dublin,  London,  Paris,  as  a  beauty  and 
a  wit — had  passed  her  early  womanhood  amid  the  tumult  of  great 
events.  She  had  witnessed  the  horrors  of  the  Terror,  the 
splendid  amazements  of  the  First  Empire ;  and  could  still  count 
among  her  friends  and  correspondents,  politicians  and  literary 
men  of  no  mean  standing.  A  legend  obtains  that  Lord  Byron 
sighed  for  her — and  in  vain.  For,  as  Katherine  came  to  know 
later,  this  woman  had  loved  once,  daringly,  finally,  yet  without 
scandal — though  the  name  of  him  whom  she  loved,  and  who 
loved  her,  was  not,  it  must  be  owned,  St.  Quentin.  And 
perhaps  it  was  just  this,  this  hidden  and  somewhat  tragic 
romance,  which  kept  her  so  young,  so  fresh  ;  kept  her  unworldly, 
though  moving  so  freely  in  the  world ;  had  given  her  that  ex- 
quisite sense  of  relative  values  and  that  knowledge  of  the  heart, 
which  leads,  as  the  divine  Plato  has  testified,  to  the  highest  and 
most  reconciling  philosophy. 

Thus,  the  delicately  brilliant  old  lady  and  the  radiant  young 
lady  lived  together  delightfully  enough,  spending  their  winters 
in  Paris  in  a  pretty  apartment  in  the  rue  de  Rennes — shared  with 
one  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  whose  friendship  with  Mrs. 
St.  Quentin  dated  from  their  schooldays  at  the  convent  of  the 
Sacre  Coeur.  Spring  and  autumn  found  Katherine  and  her 
great-aunt  in  London.  While,  in  summer,  there  was  always  a 
long  visit  to  Ormiston  Castle,  looking  out  from  the  cliff-edge 


THE  CLOWN  II 

upon  the  restless  North  Sea.  Lovers  came  in  due  course.  For 
over  and  above  its  own  shapeliness — which  surely  was  reason 
enough — Katherine's  hand  was  well  worth  winning  from  the 
worldly  point  of  view.  She  would  have  money ;  and  Mrs.  St. 
Quentin's  influence  would  count  for  much  in  the  case  of  a  great- 
nephew-by-marriage  who  aspired  to  a  parliamentary  or  diplomatic 
career.  But  the  lovers  also  went,  for  Katherine  asked  a  great 
deal — not  so  much  of  them,  perhaps,  as  of  herself.  She  had 
taken  an  idea,  somehow,  that  marriage,  to  be  in  the  least  satis- 
factory, must  be  based  on  love  ;  and  that  love,  worth  the  name,  is 
an  essentially  two-sided  business.  Indirectly  the  girl  had  learnt 
much  on  this  difficult  subject  from  her  great-aunt ;  and  with 
characteristic  directness  had  agreed  with  herself  to  wait  till  her 
heart  was  touched,  if  she  waited  a  lifetime — though  of  exact' 
in  what  either  her  heart,  or  the  touching  of  it,  consisted  she  was 
deliciously  innocent  as  yet. 

And  then,  in  the  summer  of  1841,  Sir  Richard  Calmady  came 
to  Ormiston.  He  and  her  brother  Roger  had  been  at  Eton 
together.  Katherine  remembered  him,  years  ago,  as  a  well-bred 
and  courteously  contemptuous  schoolboy,  upon  whose  superior 
mind,  small  female  creatures — busy  about  dolls,  and  victims  of 
the  athletic  restrictions  imposed  by  petticoats — made  but  slight 
impression.  Latterly  Sir  Richard's  name  had  come  to  be  one  to 
conjure  with  in  racing  circles,  thanks  to  the  performances  of 
certain  horses  bred  and  trained  at  the  Brockhurst  stables  :  thoueh 
some  critics,  it  is  true,  deplored  his  tendency  to  neglect  the 
older  and  more  legitimate  sport  of  flat-racing  in  favour  of 
steeple-chasing.  It  was  said  he  aspired  to  rival  the  long  list  of 
victories  achieved  by  Mr.  Elmore's  Gaylad  and  Lottery,  and  the 
successes  of  Peter  Simple  the  famous  grey.  This  much 
Katherine  had  heard  of  him  from  her  brother.  And,  having 
her  naughty  turns — as  what  charming  woman  has  not? — had  set 
liim  down  as  probably  a  rough  sort  of  person,  notwithstanding  his 
wealth  and  good  connections,  a  kind  of  gentleman-jockey,  upon 
whom  it  would  be  easy  to  take  a  measure  of  pretty  revenge  for 
his  boyish  indifference  to  her  existence.  But  the  meeting  and 
the  young  man,  alike,  turned  out  quite  other  than  she  had  an- 
ticipated. For  she  found  a  person  as  well  furnished  in  all  polite 
and  social  arts  as  herself,  with  no  flavour  of  the  stable  about  him. 
She  had  reckoned  on  one  whose  scholarship  would  carry  him  no 
further  than  a  few  stock  quotations  from  Horace,  and  whose 
knowledge  of  art  would  begin  and  end  with  a  portrait  of  himself 
presented  by  the  members  of  a  local  hunt.  Therefore  it  was 
a    little    surprising  —  possibly  a    little    mortifying    to  her  —  to 


12  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

hear  him  talking  over  obscure  passages  in  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queene  with  Mrs.  St.  Quentin,  before  the  end  of  the  dinner, 
and  nicely  apprising  the  relative  merits  of  the  water-colour 
sketches,  by  Turner,  that  hung  on  either  side  the  drawing-room 
fireplace. 

Nor  did  Katherine's  surprises  end  here.  An  unaccountable 
something  was  taking  place  within  her,  that  opened  up  a  whole 
new  range  of  emotion.  She,  the  least  moody  of  young  women, 
had  strange  fluctuations  of  temper,  finding  herself  buoyantly 
happy  one  hour,  the  next  pensive,  filled  with  timidity  and  self- 
distrust —  not  to  mention  little  fits  of  gusty  anger,  and  pur- 
poseless jealousy  which  took  her,  hurting  her  pride  shrewdly. 
She  grew  anxiously  solicitous  as  to  her  personal  appearance. 
This  dress  would  not  please  her  nor  that.  The  image  of  her 
charming,  oval  face  and  well-set  head  ceased  to  satisfy  her. 
Surely  a  woman's  hair  should  be  either  positively  blond  or 
black,  not  this  undeterminate  brown,  with  warm  lights  in  it? 
She  feared  her  mouth  was  not  small  enough,  the  lips  too  full  and 
curved  for  prettiness.  She  wished  her  eyes  less  given  to  change, 
under  their  dark  lashes,  from  clear  grey-blue  to  a  nameless  colour, 
like  the  gloom  of  the  pools  of  a  woodland  stream,  as  her  feelings 
changed  from  gladness  to  distress.  She  feared  her  complexion 
was  too  bright,  and  then  not  bright  enough.  And,  all  the  while, 
a  certain  shame  possessed  her  that  she  should  care  at  all  about 
such  trivial  matters ;  for  life  had  grown  suddenly  larger  and 
more  august.  Books  she  had  read,  faces  she  had  watched  a 
hundred  times,  the  vast  horizon  looking  eastward  over  the 
unquiet  sea,  all  these  gained  a  new  value  and  meaning  which  at 
once  enthralled  and  agitated  her  thought. 

Sir  Richard  Calmady  stayed  a  fortnight  at  Ormiston.  And 
the  two  ladies  crossed  to  Paris  earlier,  that  autumn,  than  was 
their  custom.  Katherine  was  not  in  her  usual  good  health,  and 
Mrs.  St.  Quentin  desired  change  of  air  and  scene  on  her  account. 
She  took  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  into  her  confidence,  hint- 
ing at  causes  for  her  restlessness  and  wayward,  little  humours 
unacknowledged  by  the  girl  herself.  Then  the  two  elder  women 
wrapped  Katherine  about  with  an  atmosphere  of — if  possible — 
deeper  tenderness  than  before ;  mingling  sentiment  with  their 
gaiety,  and  gaiety  with  their  sentiment,  and  the  delicate  respect 
which  refrains  from  question  with  both. 

One  keenly  bright,  October  afternoon  Richard  Calmady  called 
in  the  rue  de  Rennes.  It  appeared  he  had  come  to  Paris  with 
the  intention  of  remaining  there  for  an  indefinite  period.  He 
called  again  and  yet  again,  making  himself  charming — a  touch  of 


THE  CLOWN  13 

deference  tempering  his  natural  suavity — alike  to  his  hostesses 
and  to  such  of  their  guests  as  he  happened  to  meet.  It  was  the 
fashion  of  fifty  years  ago  to  conduct  affairs,  even .  those  of  the 
heart,  with  a  dignified  absence  of  precipitation.  The  weeks 
passed,  while  Sir  Richard  became  increasingly  welcome  in  some 
of  the  very  best  houses  in  Paris. — And  Katherine  ?  It  must  be 
owned  Katherine  was  not  without  some  heartaches,  which  she 
proudly  tried  to  deny  to  herself  and  conceal  from  others.  But 
eventually— it  was  on  the  morning  after  the  ball  at  the  British 
Embassy — the  man  spoke  and  the  maid  answered,  and  the  old 
order  changed,  giving  place  to  new,  in  the  daily  life  of  the  pretty 
apartment  of  the  rue  de  Rennes. 

About  five  months  later  the  marriage  took  place  in  London  , 
and  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Calmady  started  forth  on  a  wedding 
journey  of  the  old-fashioned  type.  They  travelled  up  the  Rhine, 
and  posted,  all  in  the  delicious,  early  summer  weather,  through 
Northern  Italy,  as  far  as  Florence.  They  returned  by  Paris. 
And  there,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  watching — in  almost  painful  anxiety 
— to  see  how  it  fared  with  her  recovered  darling,  was  wholly 
satisfied,  and  gave  thanks.  For  she  perceived  that,  in  this  case  at 
least,  marriage  was  no  legal,  conventional  connection  leaving  the 
heart  emptier  than  it  found  it — the  bartering  of  precious  freedom 
for  a  joyless  bondage — an  obligation,  weary  in  the  present,  and 
hopeless  of  alleviation  in  the  future,  save  by  the  reaching  of  that 
far-distant,  heavenly  country,  concerning  which  it  is  comfortably 
assured  us  "that  there  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in 
marriage."  For  the  Katherine  who  came  back  to  her  was  at 
once  the  same,  and  yet  another  Katherine — one  who  carried 
her  head  more  proudly  and  stepped  as  though  she  was  mistress 
of  the  whole  fair  earth,  but  whose  merry  wit  had  lost  its  little 
edge  of  sarcasm,  whose  sympathy  was  quicker  and  more  in- 
stinctive, whose  voice  had  taken  fuller  and  more  caressing 
tones,  and  in  whose  sweet  eyes  sat  a  steady  content  good  to  .see. 
Then,  suddenly,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  began  to  feel  her  age  as  she 
had  never,  consciously,  felt  it  before ;  and  to  be  very  willing  to 
fold  her  hands  and  recite  her  Nu7ic  Dimittis.  For,  in  looking 
on  the  faces  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  she  had  looked  once 
again  on  the  face  of  Love  itself,  and  had  stood  within  the  court  of 
the  temple  of  that  Uranian  Venus  whose  unsullied  glory  is  secure 
here  and  hereafter,  since  to  her  it  is  given  to  discover  to  her 
worshippers  the  innermost  secret  of  existence,  thereby  fencing 
them  forever  against  the  plagues  of  change,  delusion,  and  decay. 
Love  began  gently  to  loosen  the  cords  of  life,  and  to  draw  Lucia 
St.  Quentin  home — home  to  thai  dear  dwelling-place  which,  as 


14  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

we  fondly  trust — since  God  Himself  is  Love — is  reserved  for  all 
true  lovers  beyond  the  grave  and  Gates  of  Death.  Thus  one 
flower  falls  as  another  opens,  and  to-day,  however  sweet,  is  only 
won  across  the  corpse  of  yesterday. 

And  it  was  some  perception  of  just  this — the  ceaseless  push 
of  event  following  on  event,  the  ceaseless  push  of  the  yet  unborn 
struggling  to  force  the  doors  of  life — which  moved  Katherine  to 
seriousness,  as  she  stood  alone  on  the  smooth  expanse  of  the 
troco-ground,  in  the  soft,  all-covering  twilight,  at  the  close  of  the 
day's  hospitality. 

On  her  right  the  house,  and  its  delicate,  twisted  chimneys, 
showed  dark  against  the  fading  rose  of  the  western  sky.  The 
air,  rich  with  the  fragrance  of  the  red-walled  gardens  behind  her, 
— with  the  scent  of  jasmine,  heliotrope  and  clove  carnations, 
ladies-lilies  and  mignonette,  —  was  stirred,  now  and  again,  by 
wandering  winds,  cool  from  the  spaces  of  the  open  moors. 
While,  as  the  last  roll  of  departing  wheels  died  out  along  the 
avenues,  the  voices  of  the  woodland  began  to  reassert  them- 
selves. Wild-fowl  called  from  the  alder-fringed  Long  Water. 
Night-hawks  churred  as  they  beat  on  noiseless  wings  above 
the  beds  of  bramble  and  bracken.  A  cock  pheasant  made 
a  most  admired  stir  and  keckling  in  seeing  his  wife  and 
brood  to  roost  on  the  branches  of  one  of  King  James's  age-old 
Scotch  firs. 

And  this  sense  of  nature  coming  back  to  claim  her  own, 
to  make  known  her  eternal  supremacy,  now  that  the  fret  of 
man's  little  pleasuring  had  passed,  was  very  grateful  to  Katherine 
Calmady.  Her  soul  cried  out  to  be  free,  for  a  time,  to  con- 
template, to  fully  apprehend  and  measure,  its  own  happiness. 
It  needed  to  stand  aside,  so  that  the  love  given  and  all  given 
with  that  love — even  these  matters  of  house  and  gardens,  of 
men-servants  and  maid-servants,  of  broad  acres,  all  the  poetry, 
in  short,  of  great  possessions — might  be  seen  in  perspective. 
For  Katherine  had  that  necessity — in  part  intellectual,  in  part 
practical,  and  common  to  all  who  possess  the  gift  for  rule — to 
resist  the  confusing  importunity  of  detail,  and  to  grasp  intelli- 
gently the  Whole,  which  alone  gives  to  detail  coherence  and 
purpose.  Her  mind  was  not  one — perhaps  unhappily — which 
is  contented  to  merely  play  with  bricks,  but  which  demands 
the  plan  of  the  building  into  which  those  bricks  should  grow. 
And  she  wanted,  just  now,  to  lay  hold  of  the  plan  of  the  fair 
building  of  her  own  life.  And  to  this  end  the  solitude,  the 
evening  quiet,  the  restful  unrest  of  the  forest  and  its  wild 
creatures,  should  surely  have  ministered.     She  moved  forward 


THE  CLOWN  15 

and  sat  on  the  broad,  stone  balustrade  which,  topping  the 
buttressed  masonry  that  supports  it  above  the  long  downward 
slope  of  the  park,  encloses  the  troco-ground  on  the  south. 

The  landscape  lay  drowned  in  the  mystery  of  the  summer 
night.  And  Katherine,  looking  out  into  it,  tried  to  think 
clearly,  tried  to  range  the  many  new  experiences  of  the  last  few 
months  and  to  reckon  with  them.  But  her  brain  refused  to 
work  obediently  to  her  will.  She  felt  strangely  hurried  for  all 
the  surrounding  quiet. 

One  train  of  thought,  which  she  had  been  busy  enough  by 
day  and  honestly  sleepy  enough  at  night  to  keep  at  arm's 
length  during  this  time  of  home-coming  and  entertaining,  now 
invaded  and  possessed  her  mind — filling  it  at  once  with  a 
new  and  overwhelming  movement  of  tenderness  yet,  for  all 
her  high  courage,  with  a  certain  fear.  She  cried  out  for  a 
little  space  of  liberty,  a  little  space  in  which  to  take  breath. 
She  wanted  to  pause,  here  in  the  fulness  of  her  content.  But 
no  pause  was  granted  her.  She  was  so  happy,  she  asked 
nothing  more.  But  something  more  was  forced  upon  her. 
And  so  it  happened  that,  in  realising  the  ceaseless  push  of 
event  on  event,  the  ceaseless  dying  of  dear  to-day  in  the 
service  of  unborn  to-morrow,  her  gentle  seriousness  touched 
on  regret. 

How  long  she  remained  lost  in  such  pensive  reflections  Lady 
Calmady  could  not  have  said.  Suddenly  the  terrace  door 
slammed.  A  moment  later  a  man's  footsteps  echoed  across 
the  flags  of  the  garden-hall. 

"  Katherine,"  Richard  Calmady  called,  somewhat  imperatively, 
"  Katherine,  are  you  there?  " 

She  turned  and  stood  watching  him  as  he  came  rapidly  across 
the  turf. 

"  Yes,  I  am  here,"  she  said.     "  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

"Do  I  want  you?"  he  answered  curtly.  "Don't  I  always 
want  you?" 

A  little  sob  rose  in  her  throat — she  knew  not  why,  for, 
hearing  the  tone  of  his  voice,  her  sadness  was  strangely 
assuaged. 

"I  could  not  find  you,"  he  went  on.  "And  I  got  into  an 
absurd  state  of  panic — sent  Roger  in  one  direction,  and  Julius 
in  another,  to  look  for  you." 

"Whereupon  Roger,  probably,  posted  down  to  the  stables, 
and  Julius  up  to  the  chapel  to  search.  Where  the  heart  dwells 
there  the  feet  follow.  Meanwhile,  you  came  straight  here  and 
found  me  yourself." 


16  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I  might  have  known  I  should  do  that." 

The  importunate  thought  returned  upon  Katherine,  and  with 
it  a  touch  of  her  late  melancholy. 

"Ah!  one  knows  nothing  for  certain  when  one  is 
frightened,"  she  said.  She  moved  closer  to  him,  holding  out 
her  hand.  "  Here,"  she  continued,  "  you  are  a  little  too 
shadowy,  too  unsubstantial,  in  this  light,  Dick.  I  would  rather 
make  more  sure  of  your  presence." 

Richard  Calmady  laughed  very  gently.  Then  the  two  stood 
silent,  looking  out  over  the  dim  valley,  hand  in  hand. — The 
scent  of  the  gardens  was  about  them.  Moving  lights  showed 
through  the  many  windows  of  the  great  house.  The  water-fowl 
called  sleepily.  The  churring  of  the  night-hawks  was  con- 
tinuous, soothing  as  the  hum  of  a  spinning-wheel.  Somewhere, 
away  in  the  Warren,  a  fox  barked.  In  the  eastern  sky,  the 
young  moon  began  to  climb  above  the  ragged  edge  of  the 
firs. — When  they  spoke  again  it  was  very  simply,  in  broken 
sentences,  as  children  speak.  The  poetry  of  their  relation  to 
one  another  and  the  scene  about  them  were  too  full  of  meaning, 
too  lovely,  to  call  for  polish  of  rhetoric,  or  pointing  by  epigram. 

"Tell  me,"  Katherine  said,  "were  you  satisfied?  Did  I 
entertain  your  people  prettily?" 

"Prettily?  You  entertained  them  as  they  had  never  been 
entertained  before — like  a  queen — and  they  knew  it.  But  why 
did  you  stay  out  here  alone  ?  " 

"To  think — and  to  look  at  Brockhurst." 

"Yes,  it's  worth  looking  at  now,"  he  said.  "It  was  like  a 
body  wanting  a  soul  till  you  came." 

"  But  you  loved  it  ?  "  Katherine  reasoned. 

"  Oh  yes  !  because  I  believed  the  soul  would  come  some 
day.  Brockhurst,  and  the  horses,  and  the  books,  all  helped 
to  make  the  time  pass  while  I  was  waiting." 

"  Waiting  for  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  for  you,  of  course,  you  dear,  silly  sweet !  Haven't 
I  always  been  waiting  for  you — just  precisely  and  wholly  you, 
nothing  more  or  less  —  all  through  my  life,  all  through  all 
conceivable  and  inconceivable  lives,  since  before  the  world 
began  ?  " 

Katherine's  breath  came  with  a  fluttering  sigh.  She  let  her 
head  fall  back  against  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes  closed  in- 
voluntarily. She  loved  these  fond  exaggerations — as  what 
woman  does  not  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  them  ? 
They  pierced  her  with  a  delicious  pain.  And — perhaps  there- 
fore, perhaps  not  unwisely — she  believed  them  true. 


THE  CLOWN  17 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

Katherine  looked  up  smiling,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  too  tired  to  be  up  early  to-morrow  morning  and  come 
out  with  me  to  see  the  horses  galloped  ?  Sultan  will  give  you 
no  trouble.  He  is  well-seasoned  and  merely  looks  on  at  things 
in  general  with  intelligent  interest,  goes  like  a  lamb  and  stands 
like  a  rock." 

While  her  husband  was  speaking  Katherine  straightened 
herself  up,  and  moved  a  little  from  him  though  still  holding 
his  hand.  Her  languor  passed,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  and 
black. 

"I  think,  perhaps,  I  had  better  not  go  to-morrow,  Dick," 
she  said  slowly. 

"Ah!  you  are  tired,  you  poor  dear!  No  wonder,  after  the 
week's  work  you  have  had.  Another  day  will  do  just  as  well. 
Only  I  want  you  to  come  out  sometimes  in  the  first  blush  of 
the  morning,  before  the  day  has  had  time  to  grow  common- 
place, while  the  gossamers  are  still  hung  with  dew,  and  the 
mists  are  in  hollows,  and  the  horses  are  heady  from  the  fresh 
air  and  the  light.  You  will  like  it  all,  Kitty.  It  is  rather 
inspiring.  But  it  will  keep.  To-morrow  I'll  let  you  rest  in 
peace." 

"Oh  no!  it  is  not  that,"  Katherine  said  quickly. — The 
importunate  thought  was  upon  her  again,  clamouring,  not 
only  to  be  recognised,  but  fairly  owned  to  and  permitted  to 
pass  the  doors  of  speech.  And  a  certain  modesty  made  her 
shrink  from  this.  To  know  something  in  the  secret  of  your 
own  heart,  to  tell  it,  thereby  making  it  a  hard,  concrete 
fact,  outside  yourself,  over  which,  in  a  sense,  you  cease  to 
have  control,  are  two  such  very  different  matters  !  Katherine 
trembled  on  the  edge  of  her  confession  ;  though  that  to  be 
confessed  was,  after  all,  but  the  natural  crown  of  her  love. 

"I  think  I  ought  not  to  ride  now — for  a  time,  Dick."  All 
the  blood  rushed  into  her  face  and  throat,  and  then  ebbed, 
leaving  her  very  white  in  the  growing  darkness. — "You  have 
given  me  a  child,"  she  said. 


\ 


i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

CHAPTER   III 

TOUCHING    MAITERS    CLERICAL    AND    CONTROVERSIAL 

BROCKHURST  had  rarely  appeared  more  blessed  by 
spacious  sunshine  and  stately  cheerfulness  than  during 
the  remaining  weeks  of  that  summer.  A  spirit  of  unclouded 
serenity  possessed  the  place,  both  indoors  and  out.  If  rain  fell, 
it  was  only  at  night.  And  this,  as  so  much  else,  Julius  March 
noted  duly  in  his  diary. 

For  that  was  the  period  of  elaborate  private  chronicles,  when 
persons  of  intelligence  and  position  still  took  themselves,  their 
doings,  and  their  emotions,  with  most  admired  seriousness. 
Natural  science,  the  great  leveller,  had  hardly  stepped  in  as  yet. 
Therefore  it  was  that  already  Julius's  diary  ran  into  many  stout, 
manuscript  volumes,  each  in  turn  soberly  but  richly  bound, 
with  silver  clasp  and  lock  complete,  so  soon  as  its  final  page 
was  written.  Begun  when  he  first  went  up  to  Oxford,  some 
thirteen  years  earlier,  it  formed  an  intimate  history  of  the 
influences  of  the  Tractarian  Movement  upon  a  scholarly  mind 
and  delicately  spiritual  nature.  At  the  commencement  of  his 
Oxford  career  he  had  come  into  close  relations  with  some  of  the 
leaders  of  the  movement.  And  the  conception  of  an  historic 
church,  endowed  with  mystic  powers, — conveyed  through  an 
unbroken  line  of  priests  from  the  age  of  the  apostles  —  the 
orderly  round  of  vigil,  fast,  and  festival,  the  secret,  introspective 
joys  of  penance  and  confession,  the  fascinations  of  the  strictly 
religious  life  as  set  before  him  in  eloquent  public  discourse  or 
persuasive  private  conversation, — had  combined  to  kindle  an 
imagination  very  insufficiently  satisfied  by  the  lean  spiritual 
meats  offered  it  during  an  Evangelical  childhood  and  youth. 
Julius  yielded  himself  up  to  his  instructors  with  passionate  self- 
abandon.  He  took  orders,  and  remained  on  at  Oxford — being 
a  fellow  of  his  college — working  earnestly  for  the  cause  he  had 
so  at  heart.  Eventually  he  became  a  member  of  the  select  band 
of  disciples  that  dwelt,  uncomfortably,  supported  by  visions  of 
reactionary  reform  at  once  austere  and  beneficent,  in  the  range 
of  disused  stable-buildings  at  Littlemore. 

Of  the  storm  and  stress  of  this  religious  war,  its  triumphs, 
its  defeats,  its  many  agitations,  Julius's  diaries  told  with  a  deep, 
if  chastened,  enthusiasm.  His  was  a  singularly  pure  nature, 
unmoved  by  the  primitive  desires  which  usually  inflame  young 


THE  CLOWN  19 

blood.  Ideas  heated  him ;  while  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the 
pride  of  life  left  him  almost  scornfully  cold.  He  strove  earnestly, 
of  course,  to  bring  the  flesh  into  subjection  to  the  spirit ;  which 
was,  calmly  considered,  a  slight  waste  of  time,  since  the  said  flesh 
showed  the  least  possible  inclination  towards  revolt.  The  earlier 
diaries  contain  pathetic  exaggerations  of  the  slightest  indiscretion. 
Innocent  and  virtuous  persons  have  ever  been  prone  to  such 
little  manias  of  self-accusation  !  Later,  the  flesh  did  assert  itself, 
though  in  a  hardly  licentious  manner.  Oxford  fogs  and  damp, 
along  with  plain  living  and  high  thinking,  acting  upon  a  con- 
stitution naturally  far  from  robust,  produced  a  commonplace 
but  most  disabling  nemesis  in  the  form  of  colds,  coughs,  and 
chronic  asthma.  Julius  did  not  greatly  care.  He  was  in  that 
exalted  frame  of  mind  in  which  martyrdom,  even  by  phthisis  or 
bronchial  affections,  is  immeasurably  preferable  to  no  martyrdom 
at  all.  Perhaps  fortunately  his  relations,  and  even  his  Oxford 
friends,  took  a  quite  other  view  of  the  matter,  and  insisted  upon 
his  using  all  legitimate  means  to  prolong  his  life. 

Julius  left  Oxford  with  intense  regret.  It  was  the  Holy  City 
of  the  Tractarian  Movement ;  and  at  this  moment  the  progress 
of  that  Movement  was  the  one  thing  worth  living  for,  if  Hve 
indeed  he  must.  He  went  forth  bewailing  his  exile  and  enforced 
idleness,  as  a  man  bewails  the  loss  of  the  love  of  his  youth. 
For  a  time  he  travelled  in  Italy  and  in  the  south  of  France. 
On  his  return  to  England  he  went  to  stay  with  his  friend  and 
cousin.  Sir  Richard  Calmady.  Brockhurst  House  had  always 
been  extremely  congenial  to  him.  Its  suites  of  handsome 
rooms,  the  inlaid,  marble  chimneypieces  of  which  reach  up  to 
the  frieze  of  the  heavily-moulded  ceilings,  its  wide  passages  and 
stairways,  their  carved  balusters  and  newel-posts,  the  treasures 
of  its  library — now  overflowing  the  capacity  of  the  two  rooms 
originally  designed  for  them,  and  filling  ranges  of  bookcases 
between  the  bay-windows  of  the  Long  Gallery  which  runs  the 
whole  length  of  the  first  floor  from  east  to  west,  the  chapel  in 
the  southern  wing,  its  richly  furnished  altar  and  the  glories  of  its 
famous,  stained-glass  windows — all  these  were  very  grateful  to  his 
taste.  While  the  light,  dry,  upland  air  and  near  neighbourhood 
of  the  fir  forest  eased  the  physical  discomforts  from  which,  at 
times,  he  still  suffered  shrewdly. 

He  found  the  atmosphere  of  the  jjlacc  both  soothing  and 
steadying.  And  of  precisely  this  he  stood  sorely  in  need  just 
now.  For  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  change  had  come  over 
the  spirit  of  Julius  March's  great,  ecclesiastical  dream.  Absence 
from  Oxford  and  foreign  travel  had  tended  at  once  to  widen 


20  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  modify  his  thought.  He  had  seen  the  Tractarian  Move- 
ment from  a  distance,  in  due  perspective.  He  had  also  seen 
Catholicism  at  close  quarters.  He  had  realised  that  the  logical 
consequence  of  the  teaching  of  the  former  could  be  nothing  less 
than  unqualified  submission  to  the  latter.  On  his  return  to 
England  he  learned  that  more  than  one  of  his  Oxford  friends 
was  arriving,  reluctantly,  at  the  same  conclusion.  Then  there 
arose  within  him  the  fiercest  struggle  his  gentle  nature  had  ever 
yet  known.  He  was  torn  by  the  desire  to  go  forward,  risking 
all,  with  those  whom  he  reverenced ;  yet  was  restrained  by  a 
sense  of  honour.  For  there  was,  in  Julius,  a  strain  of  obstinate, 
almost  fanatic,  loyalty.  To  the  Anglican  Church  he  had  pledged 
himself.  Through  her  ministry  he  had  received  illumination. 
To  the  work  of  her  awakening  he  had  given  all  his  young 
enthusiasm.  How  then  could  he  desert  her  ?  Her  rites  might 
be  maimed.  The  scandal  of  schism  might  tarnish  her  fair 
fame.  Accusations  of  sloth  and  lukewarmness  might  not  un- 
justly be  preferred  against  her.  All  this  he  admitted.  And  it 
was  very  characteristic  of  the  man  that,  just  because  he  did 
admit  it,  he  remained  within  her  fold. 

Yet  the  decision  was  dislocating  to  all  his  thought,  even  as 
the  struggle  had  been.  It  left  him  bruised.  It  cruelly  shook 
his  self-confidence.  For  he  was  not  one  of  those  persons  upon 
whom  the  shipwreck  of  long -cherished  hopes  and  purposes 
have  a  stimulating  effect,  filling  them  merely  with  a  buoyant 
satisfaction  at  the  opportunity  afforded  them  of  beginning  all 
over  again !  Julius  was  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  a  great 
failure.  The  diaries  of  this  period  are  but  sorrowful  reading. 
He  believed  he  should  go  softly  all  his  days ;  and,  from  a  certain 
point  of  view,  in  this  he  was  right. 

And  it  was  here  that  Sir  Richard  Calmady  intervened.  He 
had  watched  his  cousin's  struggle,  had  accepted  its  reality, 
sympathising  through  friendship  rather  than  through  moral  or 
intellectual  agreement.      For   he   was   one   of  those  fortunate 

J  mortals  who,  while  possessing  a  strong  sense  of  God,  have  but 
/  small  necessity  to  define  Him.  Many  of  Julius's  keenest  agonies 
appeared  to  him  subjective,  a  matter  of  words  and  phrases. 
Yet  he  respected  them,  out  of  the  sincere  regard  he  bore  the 
man  who  suffered  them.  He  did  more.  He  tried  a  practical 
remedy.  Courteously,  as  one  asking  rather  than  conferring  a 
favour,  he  invited  Julius  to  remain  at  Brockhurst,  on  a  fair 
stipend,  as  domestic  chaplain  and  librarian. 

"  In  the  fulness  of  your  generosity  towards  me  you  are 
creating  a  costly  sinecure,"  Julius  had  remonstrated. 


THE  CLOWN  21 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  am  selfishly  trying  to  secure  myself  a 
most  welcome  companion,  by  asking  you  to  undertake  a  very 
modest  cure  of  souls  and  to  catalogue  my  books,  when  you 
might  be  filling  some  important  post  and  qualifying  for  a 
bishopric." 

Julius  had  shaken  his  head  sadly  enough.  "The  high  places 
of  the  Church  are  not  for  me,"  he  said,  "neither  are  her  great 
adventures." 

Thus  did  Julius  March,  somewhat  broken  both  in  health  and 
spirit,  become  a  carpet-priest.  The  trumpet  blasts  of  controversy 
reached  him  as  echoes  merely,  while  his  days  passed  in  peaceful, 
if  pensive,  monotony.  He  read  prayers  morning  and  evening 
to  the  assembled  household  in  the  chapel ;  reduced  the  con- 
fusion of  the  library  shelves,  doing  a  fair  amount  of  study,  both 
secular  and  theological,  during  the  process  ;  rode  with  his  cousin 
on  fine  afternoons  to  distant  farms,  by  high-banked  lanes  in  the 
lowland,  or  across  the  open  moors ;  visited  the  lodges,  or  the 
keepers'  and  gardeners'  cottages  within  the  limits  of  the  park, 
on  foot.  Now  and  again  he  took  a  service,  or  preached  a 
sermon,  for  good  Mr.  Caryll  of  Sandyfield,  in  whose  amiable 
mind  instinctive  admiration  of  those,  even  distantly,  related  to 
persons  of  wealth  and  position  jostled  an  equally  instinctive 
terror  of  Mr.  March's  "well-known  Romanising  tendencies." 
And  in  that  there  was,  surely,  a  touch  of  the  irony  of  fate  ! 
Lastly,  Julius  did  his  utmost  to  exercise  an  influence  for  good 
over  the  twenty  and  odd  boys  at  the  racing  stables  —  an 
unpromising  generation  at  best,  the  majority  of  whom,  he  feared, 
accepted  his  efforts  for  their  moral  and  spiritual  welfare  with  the 
same  somewhat  brutish  philosophy  with  which  they  accepted 
Tom  Chifney,  the  trainer's  rough-and-ready  system  of  discipline, 
and  the  thousand  and  one  vagaries  of  the  fine-limbed,  queer- 
tempered  horses  which  were  at  once  the  glory  and  torment  of 
their  young  lives. 

Things  had  gone  on  thus  for  rather  more  than  a  year,  when 
Richard  Calmady  married.  Julius  was  perhaps  inclined,  before- 
hand, to  underrate  the  importance  of  that  event.  He  was 
singularly  innocent,  so  far,  of  the  whole  question  of  woman. 
He  had  no  sisters.  At  Oxford  he  had  lived  exclusively  among 
men,  while  the  Tractarian  Movement  had  offered  a  sufficient 
outlet  to  all  his  emotion.  The  severe  and  exquisite  verses  of 
the  "  Lyra  Apostolica"  fitly  expressed  the  passions  of  his  heart. 
To  the  Church,  at  once  his  nujthcr  and  his  mistress,  he  had 
wholly  given  his  first  love.  He  had  gone  so  far,  indeed,  in  a 
rapture  of  devotion  one  Easter  Day,  during  the  celebration  of 


22  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  Holy  Eucharist,  as  to  impose  upon  himself  a  vow  of  lifelong 
celibacy.  This  he  did — let  it  be  added — without  either  the 
sanction  or  knowledge  of  his  spiritual  advisers.  The  vow, 
therefore,  remained  unwitnessed  and  unratified,  but  he  held  it 
inviolable  nevertheless.  And  it  lay  but  lightly  upon  him, 
joyfully  almost — rather  as  a  ridding  of  himself  of  possible 
perturbations  and  obsessions,  than  as  an  act  of  most  austere 
self-renunciation.  In  his  ignorance  he  merely  went  forward 
with  an  increased  freedom  of  spirit.  All  of  which  is  set  down, 
not  without  underlying  pathos,  in  the  diary  of  that  date. 

And  that  freedom  of  spirit  remained  by  him,  notwithstanding 
his  altered  circumstances.  It  even  served — indirectly,  since 
none  knew  the  fact  of  his  self-dedication  save  himself — as  a 
basis  of  pleasant  intercourse  with  the  women  of  his  own  social 
standing  whom  he  now  met.  It  served  him  thus  in  respect  of 
Lady  Calmady,  who  accepted  him  as  a  member  of  her  new 
household  with  charming  kindliness,  treating  him  with  a  gentle 
solicitude  born  of  pity  for  his  far  from  robust  health  and  for 
the  mental  struggles  which  she  understood  him  to  have  passed 
through. 

Many  persons,  it  must  be  owned,  described  Julius  as  remark- 
ably ugly.  But  he  did  not  strike  Katherine  thus.  His  heavy, 
black  hair,  beardless  face  and  sallow  skin — rendered  dull  and 
colourless,  his  features  thickened,  though  not  actually  scarred, 
by  small-pox  which  he  had  had  as  a  child, — his  sensitive  mouth, 
and  the  questioning  expression  of  his  short-sighted,  brown  eyes, 
reminded  her  of  a  fifteenth-century,  Florentine  portrait  that  had 
always  challenged  her  attention  when  she  passed  it  in  the  vesti- 
l)ule  of  a  certain  obscure,  yet  aristocratic,  Parisian  hotel,  on  the 
left  bank — well  understood — of  the  Seine. 

The  man  of  the  portrait  was  narrow-chested,  clothed  in 
black.  So  was  Julius  March.  He  had  long -fingered,  finely 
shaped  hands.  So  had  Julius.  He  gave  her  the  impression  of 
a  person  endowed  with  a  capacity  of  prolonged  and  silent  self- 
sacrifice.  So  did  Julius.  She  wondered  about  his  story.  For 
Julius,  at  least — little  as  she  or  he  then  suspected  it — the  deepest 
places  of  the  story  still  lay  ahead. 


THE  CLOWN  23 


CHAPTER  IV 

KAISIXG    PROBLEMS    WHICH    IT    IS    THE    PURPOSE    OF    THIS 
HISTORY    TO    RESOL%'E 

IT  was  not  without  a  movement  of  inward  thanksgiving  that, 
the  festivities  connected  with  Sir  Richard  and  Lady 
Calmady's  home-coming  being  over,  JuHus  March  returned 
to  his  labours  in  the  Brockhurst  hbrary.  Humanity  at  first 
hand,  whatever  its  social  standing  or  its  pursuits,  was,  in  truth, 
always  slightly  disturbing  to  him.  He  felt  more  at  home  when 
dealing  with  conclusions  than  with  the  data  that  go  to  build  up 
those  conclusions,  with  the  thoughts  of  men  printed  and  bound, 
than  with  the  urgent  raw  material  from  which  those  thoughts 
arise.  Revelation,  authority — these  were  still  his  watchwords. 
And,  in  face  of  them,  even  the  harmless  spectacle  of  a  country 
neighbourhood  at  play,  let  alone  the  spectacle  of  the  human 
comedy  generally,  is  singularly  confusing. 

He  sought  the  soothing  companionship  of  books  with  even 
heightened  relief  one  fair  morning  some  three  weeks  later.  For 
Mrs.  St.  Quentin  and  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  had  arrived  at 
Brockhurst  the  day  previously,  and  Julius  had  been  sensible  of 
certain  perturbations  of  mind  in  meeting  these  two  ladies,  one 
of  whom  was  a  devout  Catholic  by  inheritance  and  personal 
conviction,  while  the  other,  though  nominally  a  member  of  his 
own  communion,  was  known  to  temper  her  religion  with  a  wide,  if 
refined,  philosophy.  Conversation  had  drifted  towards  serious 
subjects  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  had 
admitted,  with  a  playful  deprecation  of  her  dear  friend's  rigid 
religious  attitude,  that  no  one  creed,  no  one  system,  offered  an 
adequate  solution  of  the  infinite  mystery  and  complexity  of  hfe — 
as  she  knew  it.  The  serene  adherence  of  one  charming  and 
experienced  woman  to  an  authority  which  he  had  rejected,  the 
almost  equally  serene  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  other  to  the 
revelation  he  held  as  absolute  and  final,  troubled  Julius.  Small 
wonder  then,  that  early,  after  a  solitary  breakfast,  he  retired  upon 
the  society  of  the  odd  volumes  cluttering  the  shelves  of  the  Long 
Callery,  that  he  sorted,  arranged,  catalogued,  grateful  for  that 
dulling  of  thought  which  mechanical  labour  brings  with  it. 

But  fate  was  malicious,  and  elected  to  make  a  sport  of  Julius 
this  morning.  Unexpectedly  importunate  human  drama  obtruded 
itself,  the  deep  places  of  the  story — such  as,  in  the  innocence 


24  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  his  ascetic  refinement,  he  had  never  dreamed  of — began  to 
reveal  themselves. 

He  had  climbed  the  wide,  carpeted  steps  of  the  library  ladder 
and  seated  himself  on  the  topmost  one,  at  right  angles  to  a  top- 
most shelf  the  contents  of  which  he   proposed  to  investigate, 
duster   and   notebook   in   hand.     The   vast  perspective  of  the 
gallery  lengthened  out  before   him,  cool,  faint-tinted,  full   of  a 
diffused  and  silvery  light.    The  self-coloured,  unpainted  panelling 
of  the  walls  and  bookcases — but  one  shade  warmer  in  tone  than 
that  of  the  stone  muUions  and  transoms  of  the  lofty  windows — 
gave  an  indescribable  delicacy  of  effect  to  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room.     Through  the  many-paned,  leaded  lights  of  the  eastern 
bay,  the  sunshine — misty,  full   of  dancing   notes — streamed  in 
obliquely,  bringing  into  quaint  prominence  of  light  and  shadow 
a  very  miscellaneous  collection  of  objects. — A  marble  Buddha, 
benign   of    aspect,    his   right  hand   raised   in    blessing,    seated 
cross-legged  upon  the  many-petalled   lotus.      A   pair   of  cava- 
lier's   jack -boots,    standing    just    below,    most    truculent    and 
ungainly    of   foot-gear,   wooden,   hinged,    leather  -  covered.      A 
trophy   of  Polynesian   spears,   shields,  and   canoe   paddles.     A 
bronze  Antinous,  seductive  of  bearing  and  dainty  of  limb,  but 
roughened  by  green  rust.     A  collection  of  old  sporting-prints, 
softly  coloured,  covering  a  bare  space  of  wall,  beneath  a  moose 
skull,  from  the  broad  flat  antlers  of  which  hung  a  pair  of  Canadian 
snow-shoes.     Along  the  inside  wall  of  the  great  room,  placed  at 
regular  intervals,  were  consol  tables  bearing  tall,  oriental  jars  and 
huge  bowls  of  fine  porcelain,  filled  with  potpourri ;  so  that  the 
scent   of    dried    rose-leaves,    bay,    verbena,   and   many   spices 
impregnated  the  air.    The  place  was,  in  short,  a  museum.    What- 
ever  of  strange,   grotesque,    and    curious,    Calmadys    of    past 
generations  had  collected  in  their  wanderings,  by  land  and  sea, 
found  lodgment  here.     It  was  a  home  of  half-forgotten  histories, 
of  valorous  deeds  grown  dim  through  the  lapse  of  years ;   a 
harbour  of  refuge  for   derelict   gods,  derelict  weapons,  derelict 
volumes,  derelict  instruments  which  had  once  discoursed  sweet 
enough  music,  but  the  fashion  of  which  had  now  passed  away. 
The  somewhat  obsolete  sentiment  of  the  place  harmonised  with 
the  thin,  silvery  light  and  the  thin  sweetness  of  spices  and  dead 
roses  which  pervaded  it.     It  seemed  to  smile,  as  with  the  pitying 
tolerance  of  the  benign  image  of  Buddha,  upon  the  heat  and  flame, 
the  untempered  scarlet  and  purple  of  the  fleeting  procession  of 
individual  lives,  that  had  ministered  to  its  furnishing.     For  how 
much  vigorous  endeavour,  now  over  and  done  with,  never  to  be 
recalled,  had  indeed  gone  to  supply  the  furnishing  of  that  room  ! 


THE  CLOWN 


25 


— And,  after  all,  is  not  the  most  any  human  creature  dare  hope  for 
the  more  or  less  dusty  corner  of  some  such  museum  shelf  at  last  ? 
The  passion  of  the  heart  testified  to  by  some  battered  trinket,  the 
sweat  of  the  brain  by  some  maggot-eaten  manuscript,  the  agony  of 
death,  at  best,  by  some  round  shot  turned  up  by  the  ploughshare? 
And  how  shall  anyone  dare  complain  of  this,  since  have  not  empires 
before  now  only  been  saved  from  oblivion  by  a  few  buried  pot- 
sherds, and  whole  races  of  mankind  by  childish  picture-scratchings 
on  a  reindeer  bone  ?  Tout  lasse,  tout  passe,  tout  casse.  The 
individual — his  arts,  his  possessions,  his  religion,  his  civilisation 
— is  always  as  an  envelope,  merely,  to  be  torn  asunder  and  cast 
away.  Nothing  subsists,  nothing  endures,  but  life  itself,  endlessly 
self-renewed,  endlessly  one,  through  all  the  endless  divergencies 
of  its  manifestations.  And,  as  Julius  March  was  to  find,  hide 
from  it,  deny  it,  strive  to  elude  it  as  we  may,  the  recognition 
of  just  that  is  bound  to  grip  us  sooner  or  later  and  hold  us 
with  a  fearful  and  dominating  power  from  which  there  is  no 
escape. 

INIeanwhile,  his  occupation  was  tranquil  enough,  comfortably 
remote,  as  it  seemed,  from  all  such  profound  and  disquieting 
matters.  For  the  top  shelf  proved  not  very  prolific  of  interest. 
One  book  after  another,  examined  and  rejected  as  worthless, 
was  dropped — with  a  reproachful  flutter  of  pages  and  final  thud 
— into  the  capacious  paper-basket  standing  on  the  floor  below. 
Then,  at  the  far  end  of  the  said  shelf,  he  came  unexpectedly 
upon  a  collection  of  those  quaint  chap-books  which  commanded 
so  wide  a  circulation  during  the  eighteenth  century. 

Julius,  with  the  true  bibliophile's  interest  in  all  originals, 
examined  his  find  carefully.  The  tattered  and  dogs-eared,  little 
volumes,  coarsely  printed  and  embellished  by  a  number  of  rough, 
square  woodcuts,  had,  he  knew,  a  distinct  value.  He  soon 
perceived  that  they  formed  a  very  representative  selection.  He 
glanced  at  The  famous  History  of  Guy  of  Warwick ;  at  that 
of  Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton  ;  at  Joaks  upon  Joaks,  a  lively 
work  regarding  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  aristocracy 
at  the  period  of  the  Restoration  ;  at  the  record  of  the  amazing 
adventures  of  that  lusty  serving -wench,  Long  Meg  of  West- 
minster ;  and  at  that  refreshing  piece  of  comedy  known  as 
Merry  Talcs  concerning  the  Sayings  and  Doings  of  the  Wise 
Men  of  Gotham. 

Finally,  hidden  behind  the  outstanding  frame  of  the  book- 
case, he  discovered  four  tiny  volumes  tied  together  with  a  rusty, 
black  ribbon.  A  heavy  coaling  of  dust  lay  upon  them.  A  large 
spider,  moreover,  darted  from  behind  them.     Uust   clung   un- 


26  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

pleasantly  to  its  hairy  and  ill-favoured  person.  It  was  a  matter 
of  principle  with  Julius  never  to  take  life ;  yet  instinctively  he 
drew  back  his  hand  from  the  books  in  disgust. 

"  Araignce  du  inathi,  chagrin^''  he  said,  involuntarily,  while  he 
watched  the  insect  make  good  its  escape  over  the  top  of  the 
bookcase. 

Then  he  flicked  uneasily  at  the  little  parcel  with  his  duster, 
causing  a  cloud  of  grey  atoms  to  float  up  and  out  into  the  room. 
Julius  was  perhaps  absurdly  open  to  impressions.  It  took  him 
some  seconds  to  recover  from  his  sense  of  repulsion  and  to 
untie  the  rusty  ribbon  around  the  little  books.  They  all  proved 
to  be  ragged  and  imperfect  copies  of  the  same  work.  The 
woodcuts  in  them  were  splotched  with  crude  colour.  The  title 
page  was  printed  in  assorted  type — here  a  line  of  Roman  capitals, 
there  one  in  italics  or  old  English  letters.  The  inscription, 
consequently,  was  difficult  to  decipher,  causing  him  to  hold  the 
tattered  page  very  close  to  his  short-sighted  eyes.     It  ran  thus — 

"  Setting  forth  a  true  and  particular  account  of  the  dealings 
of  Sir  Thomas  Calmady  with  the  Forester's  Daughter  and  the 
bloudy  death  of  her  Only  Child.  To  which  is  added  her 
Prophecy  and  Curse." 

Julius  had  been  standing,  so  as  to  reach  the  length  of  the 
shelf.  Now  he  sat  down  on  the  top  step  of  the  ladder  again. 
A  whole  rush  of  memories  came  upon  him.  He  remembered 
vaguely  how,  long  ago,  in  his  childhood,  he  had  heard  legends 
of  this  same  curse.  Staying  here  at  Brockhurst  as  a  baby-child 
with  his  mother,  maids  had  hinted  at  it,  gossiping  over  the 
nursery  fire  at  night ;  and  his  mind,  irresistibly  attracted,  even 
then,  by  the  supernatural,  had  been  filled  at  once  by  desperate 
curiosity  and  by  panic  fear.  He  paused,  thinking  back,  singu- 
larly moved,  as  one  on  the  edge  of  the  satisfaction  of  long- 
desired  knowledge,  yet  slightly  contemptuous,  both  of  his  own 
emotion  and  of  the  rather  vulgar  means  by  which  that  knowledge 
promised  to  be  obtained. 

The  shafts  of  sunshine  fell  more  obliquely  across  the  eastern 
end  of  the  gallery.  Benign  Buddha  had  passed  into  shadow ; 
while  a  painting  by  Velasquez,  standing  on  an  easel  near  by, 
caught  the  light,  starting  into  arresting  reality.  It  represented  a 
hideous  and  mis-shapen  dwarf,  holding  a  couple  of  graceful  grey- 
hounds in  a  leash — an  unhappy  creature  who  had  made  sport  for 
the  household  of  some  Castilian  grandee,  and  whose  gorgeous 
garments  were  ingeniously  designed  to  emphasise  the  physical 
degradation  of  his  contorted  body.     This  painting,  appearing  to 


THE  CLOWN  27 

Julius  too  painful  for  habitual  contemplation,  had,  at  his  request, 
been  removed  from  his  study  downstairs  to  its  present  station. 
Just  now  he  fancied  it  looked  forth  at  him  queerly  insistent. 
At  this  distance  he  could  distinguish  little  more  than  a  flare  of 
scarlet  and  cloth-of-gold,  and  the  white  of  the  hounds'  flanks  and 
bellies,  under  the  strong  sunlight.  But  he  knew  the  picture  in 
all  its  details  ;  and  was  oppressed  by  the  remembrance  of  tragic 
eyes  in  a  brutal  face,  eyes  that  protested  dumbly  against  cruelty 
inflicted  by  nature  and  by  mankind  alike.  He,  Julius,  was  not, 
so  he  feared,  quite  guiltless  in  this  matter.  For  had  there  not 
been  a  savour  of  cruelty  in  his  ejection  of  the  portrait  of  this 
unhappy  being  from  his  peaceful  study  ? 

And  thinking  of  this  his  discomfort  augmented.  He  was 
assailed  by  an  unreasoning  nervousness  of  something  malign, 
something  sinister,  about  to  befall  or  to  become  known  to 
him. 

" Araignee  du  matift,  chagrin"  he  repeated  involuntarily. 

He  laid  the  four  little  chap-books  back  hastily  behind  the 
outstanding  woodwork  of  the  bookshelf,  descended  the  steps, 
walked  the  length  of  the  gallery,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the 
stone  mullions  of  the  great,  eastern  bay-window  looked  out  of 
the  wide-open  casement. 

The  prospect  was,  indeed,  reassuring  enough.  The  softly- 
green  square  of  the  troco-ground,  the  brilliant  beds  and  borders 
of  the  brick-walled  gardens,  the  grey  flags  of  the  great  terrace 
— its  row  of  little  orange  trees,  heavy  with  flower  and  fruit, 
set  in  blue  painted  tubs — lay  below  him  in  a  blaze  of  August 
sunshine.  From  the  direction  of  the  Long  Water  in  the  valley, 
Richard  Calmady  rode  up,  between  the  thorn  trees  and  the  beds 
of  bracken,  across  the  turf  slopes  of  the  park.  It  was  a  joy  to 
see  him  ride.  The  rider  and  horse  were  one  in  vigour  and  in 
the  repose  which  comes  of  vigour — a  something  classic  in  the 
natural  beauty  and  sympathy  of  rider  and  of  horse.  Half-way 
up  the  slope  Richard  swerved,  turned  towards  the  house,  sat 
looking  up,  hat  in  hand,  while  Katherine  stood  at  the  edge  of 
the  terrace  looking  down,  speaking  with  him.  The  warm  breeze 
fluttered  her  full,  muslin  skirts,  rose  and  white,  and  the  white 
lace  of  her  parasol.  The  rich  tones  of  her  voice  and  the  ring  of 
her  laughter  came  up  to  Julius,  as  he  leant  against  the  stone 
muUion,  along  with  the  droning  of  innumerable  bees,  and  the 
cooing  of  the  pink-footed  pigeons — that  bowed  to  one  another, 
spreading  their  tails,  drooping  their  wings  amorously,  upon  the 
broad,  grey  string-course  running  along  the  house -front  just 
beneath.     Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  a  small,  neat,  grey  and 


28  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

black  figure,  was  beside  Katherine,  and,  now  and  again,  he  heard 
the  pretty  staccato  of  her  foreign  speech.  Then  Richard 
Calmady  rode  onward,  turning  half  round  in  the  saddle, 
looking  up  for  a  moment  at  the  woman  he  loved.  His  horse 
broke  into  a  canter,  bearing  him  swiftly  in  and  out  of  the 
shadow  of  the  glistening,  domed  oaks  and  ancient,  stag-headed, 
Spanish  chestnuts  which  crowned  the  ascent,  and  on  down  the 
long,  softly-shaded  vista  of  the  lime  avenue.  While  Camp,  the 
bull-dog,  who  had  lain  panting  in  the  bracken,  streaked  like 
a  white  flash  up  the  hillside  in  pursuit  of  his  well-beloved 
master. 

And  Julius  March  moved  away  from  the  open  window  with 
a  sigh.  Yet  what,  after  all,  of  malign  or  sinister  was  per- 
ceptible, conceivable  even,  in  respect  of  this  glorious  morning 
and  these  happy  people — unless,  as  he  reflected,  something  of 
pathos  is  of  necessity  ever  resident  in  all  beauty,  all  happiness, 
the  world  being  sinful,  and  existence  so  prolific  of  pain  and 
melancholy  happenings  ?  So  he  went  back,  climbed  the  library 
steps  again,  and  taking  the  little  bundle  of  chap-books  from 
their  dusty  resting-place,  set  himself,  in  a  somewhat  penitential 
spirit,  to  master  their  contents.  If  the  occupation  was  distaste- 
ful to  him,  the  more  wholesome  to  pursue  it !  So,  supplying  the 
deficiencies  of  torn  or  defaced  pages  by  reference  to  another  of 
the  copies,  he  arrived  by  degrees  at  a  clear  understanding  of  the 
whole  matter.  The  story  was  set  forth  in  rhyming  doggerel. 
The  poet  was  not  blessed  with  a  gift  of  melody  or  of  style. 
Absence  of  scansion  tortured  the  ear.  Coarseness  of  diction 
offended  the  taste.  And  yet,  as  he  read  on,  Julius  reluct- 
antly admitted  that  the  cruel  tale  gained  credibility  and  moral 
force  from  the  very  homeliness  of  the  language  in  which  it  was 
chronicled. 

Thus  Julius  learned  how,  during  the  closing  years  of  the 
Commonwealth,  the  young  royalist  gentleman.  Sir  Thomas 
Calmady,  dwelling  in  enforced  seclusion  at  Brockhurst,  re- 
lieved the  tedium  of  country  life  by  indulgence  in  divers 
amours.  He  was  large-hearted,  apparently,  and  could  not  see 
a  comely  face  without  attempting  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  possessor  of  it.  Among  other  damsels  distinguished  by 
his  attentions  was  his  head  forester's  handsome  daughter, 
whom,  under  reiterated  promise  of  marriage,  he  seduced.  In 
due  time  she  bore  him  a  child,  ideally  beautiful,  according  to 
the  poet  of  the  chap-book,  blessed  with  "red-gold  hair  and  eyes 
of  blue,"  and  many  charms  of  infantile  healthfulness.  And  yet, 
notwithstanding  the  noble  looks  of  her  little  son,  the  forester's 


THE  CLOWN  29 

daughter  still  remained  unwed.  For  just  now  came  the 
Restoration,  and,  along  with  it,  a  notable  change  in  the  outlook 
of  Sir  Thomas  Calmady  and  many  another  lusty,  young  gallant ; 
since  the  event  in  question  not  only  restored  Charles  the  Second 
to  the  arms  of  his  devoted  subjects,  but  restored  such  loyal 
gentlemen  to  the  by  no  means  too  strait-laced  society  of 
town  and  court.  Thence,  some  few  years  later.  Sir  Thomas — 
amiably  willing  in  all  things  to  oblige  his  royal  master — brought 
home  a  bride,  whose  rank  and  wealth,  according  to  the 
censorious  chap-book,  were  extensively  in  excess  of  her  youth 
and  virtue, 

Julius  lingered  a  little  in  contemplation  of  the  quaint  wood- 
cut representing  the  arrival  of  this  lady  at  Brockhurst,  Clothed 
in  a  bottle-green  bodice  —  very  generously  dkolletee — her  head 
adorned  by  a  portentous  erection  of  coronet  and  feathers,  a 
sanguine  dab  of  colour  on  her  cheek,  she  craned  a  skinny  neck 
out  of  the  window  of  the  family  coach.  Apparently  she  was 
engaged  in  directing  the  movements  of  persons — presumably  foot- 
men— clad  in  canary-coloured  coats  and  armed  with  long  staves. 
With  these  last,  they  treated  a  female  figure,  in  blue,  to,  as  it 
seemed,  sadly  rough  usage.  And  the  context  informed  Julius,  in 
jingling  verse,  how  that  poor  Hagar,  the  forester's  daughter,  in- 
conveniently defiant  of  custom  and  of  common  sense,  had  stoutly 
refused  to  be  cast  forth  into  the  social  wilderness,  along  with  her 
small  Ishmael  and  a  few  pounds  sterling  as  price  of  her  honour 
and  content,  until  she  had  stood  face  to  face  with  Sarah,  the 
safely  church-wed^  if  none  too  reputable,  wife.  It  informed  him, 
further,  how  the  said  small  Ishmael — whether  alarmed  by  the 
violence  of  my  lady's  men-servants,  or  wanting  merely,  childlike, 
to  welcome  his  returning  father — ran  to  the  coach  door  and 
clambered  on  the  step ;  whence,  thanks  to  a  vicious  thrust 
—  so  declares  the  chap-book  —  from  "the  painted  Jezebel 
within,"  he  fell,  while  the  horses  plunging  forward  caused  the 
near  hind  wheel  of  the  heavy,  lumbering  vehicle  to  pass 
over  his  legs,  almost  severing  them  from  his  body  just  above 
the  knee. 

Thereupon — and  here  the  homely  language  of  the  gutter 
poet  rose  to  a  level  of  rude  eloriucncc — the  outraged  mother, 
holding  the  mangled  and  dying  child  in  her  arms,  cursed  the 
man  who  had  brought  this  ruin  upon  her — cursed  him  and 
his  descendants,  to  the  sixth  and  seventh  generation,  good 
and  bad  alike.  Declaring,,  moreover,  that  as  judgment 
on  his  perfidy  and  lust,  no  owner  of  ]>rockhurst  should 
reach    the    life    limit   set    by  the    Psalmist,  and  die    (juict    and 


30  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

christianly  in  his  bed,  until  a  somewhat  portentous  event 
should  have  taken  place. — Namely,  until,  as  the  jingling  rhyme 
set  forth : — 

" — a  fatherless  babe  to  the  birth  shall  have  come, 
Of  brother  or  sister  shall  he  have  none, 
But  red-gold  hair  and  eyes  of  blue 
And  a  foot  that  will  never  know  slocking  or  shoe. 
If  he  opens  his  purse  to  the  lamenter's  cry, 
Then  the  woe  shall  lift  and  be  laid  for  aye." 

Julius  March,  his  spare,  black  figure  crouched  together,  sat 
on  the  top  step  of  the  library  ladder  musing.  His  first  move- 
ment had  been  one  of  refined  and  contemptuous  disgust. 
Sensuality,  and  the  tragedies  engendered  by  it,  were  so  wholly 
foreign  to  his  nature  and  mental  outlook,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  him  to  reckon  with  them  seriously  and  admit  the  very  actual 
and  permanent  part  which  they  play,  and  always  have  played,  in  the 
great  drama  of  human  life.  It  distressed,  it,  in  a  sense,  annoyed 
him  that  the  legend  of  Brockhurst,  which  had  caused  him 
elaborate  imaginative  terrors  during  his  childhood,  should  belong 
to  this  gross  and  vulgar  order  of  history.  Yet  indubitably — as 
he  reluctantly  admitted — each  owner  of  Brockhurst  had,  very 
certainly,  found  death  in  the  midst  of  life,  and  that  according 
to  some  rather  brutal  and  bloody  pattern.  This  might,  of 
course,  be  judged  the  result  of  merest  coincidence.  Had  he 
leisure  and  opportunity  to  search  them  out,  he  could  find,  no 
doubt,  plausible  explanation  of  the  majority  of  cases.  Only 
that  fact  of  persistent  violence,  persistent  accident,  did  remain. 
It  stared  him  in  the  face,  so  to  speak,  defiant  of  denial.  And 
the  deduction,  consequent  upon  it,  stared  him  in  the  face  like- 
wise. He  was  constrained  to  confess  that  the  first  clause  of 
the  deeply  -  wronged  mother's  prediction  had  found  ample 
fulfilment. — Julius  paused,  shifted  his  position  uneasily,  some- 
what fearful  of  the  conclusions  of  his  own  reasoning. 

For  how  about  the  second  clause  of  that  same  prediction  ? 
How  about  the  advent  of  that  strange  Child  of  Promise,  who  pre- 
ordained in  his  own  flesh  to  bear  the  last  and  heaviest  stroke  at 
the  hands  of  retributive  justice,  should,  righdy  bearing  it,  bring 
salvation  both  to  himself  and  to  his  race  ?  Behind  the  coarse 
and  illiterate  presentment  of  the  chap-book,  Julius  began 
dimly  to  apprehend  a  somewhat  majestic  moral  and  spiritual 
tragedy,  a  tragedy  of  vicarious  suffering  crowned  by  triumphant 
emancipation.  Thus  has  God,  as  he  reflected  with  a  self-con- 
demnatory emotion  of  humility,  chosen  the  base  things  of  the 


THE  CLOWN  31 

■world  and  those  which  are  despised — yea,  and  the  things  which 
are  not,  to  bring  to  nought  the  things  which  are  ! — His  heart, 
hungry  of  all  martyrdom,  all  saintly  doings,  went  forth  to  welcome 
the  idea.  But  then,  he  asked  himself  almost  awed,  in  this 
sceptical,  rationalistic  age,  are  such  semi  -  miraculous  moral 
examples  still  possible  ?  And  answered,  with  strong  exultation — 
as  one  finding  practical  justification  of  a  long,  though  silently, 
cherished  conviction — yes,  that  even  now,  nineteen  centuries 
after  the  death  of  that  divine  Saving  Victim  to  whose  service  he 
had  devoted  his  life  and  the  joys  of  his  manhood,  such  nobly  sad 
and  strange  happenings  may  still  be. 

And,  even  while  he  thus  answered,  his  eyes  were  drawn 
involuntarily  to  the  portrait  of  the  unsightly  dwarf,  painted  by 
Velasquez.  The  broad  shaft  of  sunlight  had  crept  backward, 
away  from  it,  leaving  the  canvas  unobtrusive,  no  longer  harshly 
evident  either  in  violence  of  colour  or  grotesqueness  of  form. 
It  had  become  part  of  the  great  whole  merely,  modulated  to 
gracious  harmony  with  the  divers  objects  surrounding  it,  and, 
like  them,  softly  overlaid  by  a  diffused  and  silvery  light. 


CHAPTER  V 

IX    WHICH   JULIUS    MARCH    BEHOLDS    THE    VISION    OF   THE 

NEW    LIFE 

HE  was  aroused  from  these  austere,  yet,  to  him,  inspiring 
reflections  by  the  click  of  an  opening  door  and  the 
sound  of  women's  voices.  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  paused 
on  the  threshold,  one  hand  raised  in  quick  admiration,  the  other 
resting  on  Lady  Calmady's  arm. 

"  But  this  is  superb  ! "  she  cried  gaily.  "  Your  charming  King 
Richard,  Ctxur  (TOr,  has  given  you  a  veritable  palace  to 
inhabit!" 

"Ah  yes!  King  Richard  has  indeed  given  me  a  palace 
to  live  in.  But,  better  still,  he  has  given  me  his  dear  heart 
of  gold  in  which  to  hide  the  life  of  my  heart  for  ever  and  a 
day." 

Katherine's  words  came  triumf)hantly,  more  as  song  than  as 
speech.  She  caught  the  elder  woman's  ujiraised  hand  gently  and 
kissed  it,  looking  her,  meanwhile,  full  in  the  face. — "  I  am  happy, 
very,  very  happy,  best  and  dearest,"  she  said.  "And  it  is  so 
delicious  to  be  happy." 


32  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Ah,  my  child,  my  beautiful  child  !"  Mademoiselle  de  Miran- 
court  cried. 

There  were  tears  in  her  pretty,  patient  eyes.  For  if  youth 
finds  age  pathetic  with  the  obvious  pathos  of  spent  body,  and 
of  tired  mind  which  has  ceased  to  greatly  hope,  how  far  more 
deeply  pathetic  does  age,  from  out  its  sad  and  settled  wisdom, 
find  poor,  gallant  youth  and  all  its  still  unbroken  trust  in  the 
beneficence  of  destiny,  its  unbroken  faith  in  the  enchantments 
of  earth ! 

Meanwhile,  Julius  March — product  as  he  was  of  an  arbitrary 
system  of  thought  and  training,  and  by  so  much  divorced  from 
the  natural  instincts  of  youth  and  age  alike,  the  confident  joy  of 
the  one,  the  mature  acquiescence  of  the  other- — in  overhearing 
this  brief  conversation  suffered  embarrassment  amounting  almost 
to  shame.  For  not  only  Katherine's  words,  but  the  vital  glad- 
ness of  her  voice,  the  sweet  exuberance  of  her  manner  as  she 
bent,  in  all  her  spotless  bravery  of  white  and  rose,  above  the 
elder  woman's  hand  and  kissed  it,  came  to  him  as  a  revelation 
before  which  he  shrank  with  a  certain  fearful  modesty.  Julius 
had  read  of  love  in  the  poets,  of  course.  But,  in  actual  fact,  he 
had  never  wooed  a  woman,  nor  heard  from  any  woman's  lips  the 
language  of  intimate  devotion.  The  cold  embraces  of  the  Church 
— a  church,  as  he  too  often  feared,  rendered  barren  by  schism 
and  heresy — were  the  only  embraces  he  had  ever  suffered. 
Things  read  of  and  things  seen,  moreover,  are  singularly  different 
in  power.  And  so  he  trembled  now  at  the  mystery  of  human 
love,  actual  and  concrete,  here  close  beside  him.  He  was, 
indeed,  moved  to  the  point  of  losing  his  habitual  suavity  of 
demeanour.  He  rose  hastily  and  descended  the  library  steps, 
forgetful  of  the  handful  of  chap-books,  which  fell  in  tattered  and 
dusty  confusion  upon  the  floor. 

Katherine  looked  round.  Until  now  she  had  been  unobservant 
of  his  presence,  innocent  of  other  audience  than  the  old  friend, 
to  whom  it  was  fitting  enough  to  confide  dear  secrets.  For  an 
instant  she  hesitated,  embarrassed  too,  her  pride  touched  to 
annoyance,  at  having  laid  bare  the  treasures  of  her  heart  thus 
unwittingly.  She  was  tempted  to  retreat  through  the  still  open 
door,  into  the  library,  and  leave  the  review  of  the  Long  Gallery 
and  its  many  relics  to  a  more  convenient  season.  But  it  was 
not  Katherine's  habit  to  run  away,  least  of  all  from  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  actions.  And  her  sense  of  justice  compelled 
her  to  admit  that,  in  this  case,  the  indiscretion — if  indiscretion 
indeed  there  was — lay  with  her,  in  not  having  seen  poor  Julius  ; 
rather  than  with  him,  in  having  overheard  her  little  outburst.    So 


THE  CLOWN  33 

she  called  to  him  in  friendly  greeting,  and  came  swiftly  towards 
him  down  the  length  of  the  great  room. 

And  Julius  stood  waiting  for  her,  leaning  against  the  frame 
of  the  library  ladder — a  spare,  black  figure,  notably  at  variance 
with  the  broad  glory  of  sunshine  and  colour  reigning  out  of 
doors. 

His  usually  quick  instinct  of  courtesy  was  in  abeyance,  shaken, 
as  he  still  was,  and  confused  by  the  revelation  that  had  just  come 
to  him.  He  looked  at  Lady  Calmady  with  a  new  and  agitated 
understanding.  She  made  so  fair  a  picture  that  he  could  only 
gaze  dumbly  at  it.  Tall  in  fact,  Katherine  was  rendered  taller 
by  the  manner — careless  of  passing  fashion — in  which  her  hair 
was  dressed.  The  warm,  brown  mass  of  it,  rolled  up  and  back 
from  her  forehead,  showed  all  the  perfect  oval  of  her  face. 
Tender,  lovely,  smiling,  her  blue-brown  eyes  soft  and  lustrous, 
with  a  certain  wondering  serenity  in  their  depths,  there  was  yet 
something  majestic  about  Katherine  Calmady.  No  poor  or 
unworthy  line  marred  the  nobility  of  her  face  or  figure.  The 
dark,  arched  eyebrows,  the  well  -  chiselled  and  slightly  aquiline 
nose,  the  firm  chin  and  throat,  the  shapely  hands,  all  denoted 
harmony  and  completeness  of  development,  and  promised  a 
reserve  of  strength,  ready  to  encounter  and  overcome  if  danger 
were  to  be  met.  Years  afterwards  the  remembrance  of  Katherine 
as  he  just  then  saw  her  would  return  upon  Julius,  as  prophetic 
of  much.  Quailing  in  spirit,  still  reluctant,  in  his  asceticism, 
to  comprehend  and  reckon  with  her  personality  in  the  fulness 
of  its  present  manifestation,  he  answered  her  at  random  and 
with  none  of  the  pause  and  playful  evasiveness  usual  to  his 
speech. 

"  I  am  very  glad  we  have  found  you,"  Katherine  said  frankly. 
"I  was  afraid,  by  the  fact  of  your  not  coming  to  breakfast,  that 
you  were  overtired.  We  talked  late  last  night.  Did  we  weary 
you  too  much?" 

"  Existence  in  itself  is  vexatiously  wearisome  at  times — at 
least  to  feeble  persons,  like  myself." 

Katherine's  smile  faded.  She  looked  at  him  with  charming 
solicitude. 

"Ah  !  you  are  not  well,"  she  declared.  "Go  jout  and  enjoy 
the  sunshine.  Leave  all  those  stupid  books.  Co,"  she  re- 
j)eated,  "  order  one  of  the  horses.  Go  and  meet  Richard.  He 
has  gone  over  to  look  at  the  new  lodge.  You  could  ride  all 
the  way  through  the  east  woods  in  the  cool. — See,  I  will  put 
these  tidy." 

And,    as   she    spoke,    Katherine    stooped    to    pick    up    the 

3 


34  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

scattered  chap-books  from  the  ground.  But,  in  the  last  few 
moments,  while  looking  at  her,  yet  further  understanding  had 
overtaken  Julius  March.  Not  only  the  mystery  of  human  love, 
but  the  mystery  of  dawning  motherhood  had  come  close  to 
him.  And  he  put  Lady  Calmady  aside  with  a  determination  of 
authority  somewhat  surprising. 

"  No,  no,  pardon  me  !  They  are  dusty,  they  will  soil  your 
hands.     You  must  not  touch  those  books,"  he  said. 

Katherine  straightened  herself  up.  Her  face  was  slightly 
flushed,  her  expression  full  of  kindly  amusement. 

"Dear  Julius,  you  are  very  imperative.  Surely  I  may  make 
my  hands  dirty,  once  in  a  way,  in  a  good  cause?  They  will 
wash,  you  know,  just  as  well  as  your  own,  after  all." 

"A  thousand  times  better.  Still,  I  will  ask  you  not  to  touch 
those  books.  I  have  valid  reasons.  For  one,  an  evil  beast  in 
the  form  of  a  spider  has  dwelt  among  them.  I  disturbed  it  and 
it  fled,  looking  as  though  it  had  grown  old  in  trespasses  and 
sins.     It  seemed  to  me  a  thing  of  ill  omen." 

He  tried  to  steady  himself,  to  treat  the  matter  lightly.  Yet 
his  speech  struck  Katherine  as  hurried  and  anxious,  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Poor  thing — and  you  killed  it  ?  Yet  it  couldn't  help  being 
ugly,  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  not  without  a  touch  of  malice. 

Julius  was  on  his  knees,  his  long,  thin  fingers  gathering 
up  the  tattered  pages,  ranging  them  into  a  bundle,  tying  them 
together  with  the  tag  of  rusty,  black  ribbon  aforesaid.  For  an 
unreasoning,  fierce  desire  was  upon  him — very  alien  to  his  usual 
gentle  attitude  of  mind — to  shield  this  beautiful  woman  from  all 
acquaintance  with  the  foul  story  set  forth  in  those  little  books. 
To  shield  her,  indeed,  from  more  than  merely  that.  For  a  vague 
presentiment  possessed  him  that  she  might,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  be  intimately  involved  in  the  final  development  of  that 
same  story  which,  though  august,  was  so  full  of  suffering,  so 
profoundly  sad.  Meanwhile,  in  his  excitement,  he  replied,  less 
to  her  gently  mocking  question  than  to  the  importunities  of 
his  own  thought. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  let  it  go.  I  begin  to  fear  it  is  useless  to 
attempt  to  take  short-cuts  to  the  extinction  of  what  is  evil.  It 
does  not  cease,  but  merely  changes  its  form.  Unwillingly  I  have 
learned  that.     No  violent  death  is  possible  to  things  evil." 

Julius  rose  to  his  feet. 

"They  must  go  on,"  he  continued,  "till,  in  the  merciful 
providence  of  God,  their  term  is  reached,  till  their  power  is 
exhausted,  till  they  have  worn  themselves  out." 


THE  CLOWN  35 

Lady  Calmady  turned  and  moved  thoughtfully  towards  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  where  the  sunshine  still  slanted  in  through 
the  open  casements  of  the  bay-window,  and  where  the  delicate, 
little,  spinster  lady  stood  awaiting  her.  Amorous  pigeons  cooed 
below  on  the  string-course.  Bees  droned  sleepily  against  the 
glass. 

"But,"  she  said,  in  gentle  remonstrance,  "that  is  a  rather 
terrible  doctrine,  Julius.  Surely  it  is  not  quite  just ;  for  it 
would  seem  to  leave  us  almost  hopelessly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
wrong-doing  of  others." 

"  Yes,  but  are  we  not,  just  that — all  of  us  at  the  mercy  of  the 
wrong-doing  of  others? — The  courageous  forever  suffering  for 
the  cowardly,  the  wise  for  the  ignorant  and  brutish,  the  just  for 
the  unjust?  Is  not  this,  perhaps,  the  very  deepest  lesson  of  our 
religion  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  no!"  Katherine  cried  incredulously.  "There  is 
something  at  once  deeper  and  more  comforting  than  that. 
Remember,  in  the  beginning,  when  God  created  all  things  and 
reviewed  His  handiwork,  He  pronounced  it  very  good." 

Julius  was  recovering  his  suavity.  The  little  packet  of  chap- 
books  rested  safely  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  smiling. 

They  reached  the  bay-window.  Katherine  took  her  old 
friend's  hand  once  again  and  laid  it  caressingly  upon  her  arm. 

"  Pardon  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,  dearest,"  she  said. 
"Julius  is  in  fault.  He  will  argue  with  me  about  the  date  of 
the  creation,  and  that  takes  time.  He  declares  it  was  so  long 
ago  that  everything  has  had  time  to  grow  very  old  and  go  very 
wrong.  But,  indeed,  he  is  mistaken.  Agree  with  me,  tell  him 
he  is  mistaken  !  The  world  is  deliciously  young  yet.  It  was 
only  made  a  little  over  twenty-two  years  ago.  I  must  know,  for 
I  came  into  it  then.  And  I  found  it  all  as  new  as  I  was  myself, 
and  a  thousand  limes  prettier  —  ijuite  adorably  gay,  adorably 
fresh." 

Katherine's  voice  sank,  grew  fuller  in  tone.  She  gazed  out 
over  the  brilliant  garden  to  the  woodland  shimmering  in  the 
noontide  heat.  "^Fhen  she  looked  at  Julius  March,  lier  eyes  and 
lips  eloquent  with  joyous  conviction. 

"Indeed,  I  think.  Clod  makes  His  whole  creation  over  again 
for  each  one  of  us,  it  is  so  beautiful.  As  in  tiie  beginning,  so 
now,"  she  said;  "behold  it  is  very  good  —  ah  yes!  who  can 
doul)t  that— it  is  very  good  ! " 

"  Amen.  To  you  may  it  ever  so  continue,"  Julius  murmured, 
bowing  his  head. 


36  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

That  evening  there  was  a  dinner  party  at  Brockhurst.  Lord 
Denier  brought  his  handsome  second  wife.  She  was  a  Hellard, 
and  took  the  judge  faute  de  jnteux,  so  said  the  wicked  world, 
rather  late  in  life.  The  Cathcarts  of  Newlands  and  their 
daughter  Mary  came ;  and  Roger  Ormiston  too,  who,  being  off 
duty,  had  run  down  from  London  for  a  few  days'  partridge  shoot- 
ing, bringing  with  him  his  cousin  Colonel  St.  Quentin — invalided 
home,  to  his  own  immense  chagrin,  in  the  midst  of  the  Afghan 
war.  On  the  terrace,  after  dinner,  for  the  night  was  warm 
enough  for  the  whole  company  to  take  coffee  out  of  doors, 
Lady  Calmady — incited  thereunto  by  her  brother — had  per- 
suaded Mary  Cathcart  to  sing,  accompanying  herself  on  her 
guitar.  The  girl's  musical  gifts  were  of  no  extraordinary  order, 
but  her  young  contralto  was  true  and  sweet.  The  charm  of  the 
hour  and  the  place,  moreover,  was  calculated  to  heighten  the 
effect  of  the  Jacobite  songs  and  old-world  love-ditties  which  she 
selected. 

Roger  Ormiston  unquestionably  found  her  performance 
sufficiently  moving.  But  then  the  girl's  frank  manner,  her 
warm,  gipsy-like  colouring,  and  the  way  in  which  she  could  sit  a 
horse,  moved  him  also ;  had  done  so,  indeed,  ever  since  he  first 
saw  her,  as  quite  a  child,  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  on  one 
of  his  earliest  visits  to  Brockhurst,  fighting  a  half-broken,  Welsh 
pony  that  refused  at  a  grip  by  the  roadside.  The  little  maiden, 
her  face  pale,  for  once,  from  concentration  of  purpose,  had 
forced  the  pony  over  the  grip.  Then,  slipping  out  of  the  saddle, 
she  coaxed  and  kissed  the  rough,  unruly,  little  beast,  with  tears 
of  apology  for  the  hard  usage  to  which  she  had  been  obliged  to 
subject  it.  So  stout,  yet  so  tender,  a  heart,  struck  Roger  as  an 
excellent  thing  in  woman.  And  now,  listening  to  the  full, 
rounded  notes  and  thrumming  of  the  guitar  strings,  in  the 
evening  quiet  under  the  stars,  he  wished,  remorsefully,  that  he 
had  never  been  guilty  of  any  pleasant  sins,  that  his  record  was 
cleaner,  his  tastes  less  expensive,  that  he  was  a  better  fellow  all 
round,  in  short,  than  he  was,  because,  then,  perhaps — 

And  Julius  March,  too,  found  the  singing  somewhat  agitating, 
though  to  him  the  personality  of  the  singer  was  of  small  account. 
Another  personality,  and  a  train  of  feeling  evoked  by  certain  new 
aspects  of  it,  had  pursued  him  all  the  day  long.  Katherine,  mind- 
ful of  her  somewhat  outspoken  divergence  of  opinion  from  his,  in 
the  morning,  had  been  particularly  thoughtful  of  his  pleasure  and 
entertainment.  At  dinner  she  directed  the  conversation  upon 
subjects  interesting  to  him,  and  had  thereby  made  him  talk  more 
unreservedly  than  was  his  wont.     Not  even  the  most  saintly  of 


THE  CLOWN  37 

human  beings  is  wholly  indifferent  to  social  success.  Julius  was 
conscious  of  a  stirring  of  the  blood,  of  a  subdued  excitement. 
These  sensations  were  pleasurable.  But  his  training  had  taught 
him  to  distrust  pleasurable  sensations  as  too  often  the  offspring 
of  very  questionable  parentage.  And,  while  Mary  Cathcart's 
voice  still  breathed  upon  the  fragrant  night  air,  he,  standing 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  listening  company,  slipped  away 
unperceived. 

His  study,  a  long,  narrow  room  occupying,  with  his  bedroom, 
the  ground  floor  of  the  chapel  wing  of  the  house,  struck  chill 
as  he  entered  it.  Above  the  range  of  pigeon-holes  and  little 
drawers,  forming  the  back  of  the  writing-table,  two  candles  burned 
on  either  side  of  a  bronze  pieta,  which  Julius  had  brought  back 
with  him  from  Rome.  On  the  broad  slab  of  the  table  below 
were  the  many  quires  of  foolscap  forming  the  library  catalogue, 
neatly  numbered  and  lettered  ;  while  his  diary  lay  open  upon  the 
blotting-pad,  ready  for  the  chronicle  of  the  past  day's  events. 
Beside  it  was  the  packet  of  chap-books,  still  tied  together  with 
their  tag  of  rusty  ribbon. 

It  was  Julius  March's  habit  to  exchange  his  coat  for  a  cassock 
in  the  privacy  of  his  study.  He  did  so  now,  and  knotted  a  black 
cord  about  his  waist.  Let  no  one  underrate  the  sustaining 
power  of  costume,  whether  it  take  the  form  of  ballet-skirt  or 
monk's  frock.  Human  nature  is  but  a  weak  thing  at  best,  and 
needs  outward  and  visible  signs,  not  only  to  support  its  faith  in 
its  deity,  but  even  its  faith  in  its  own  poor  self !  Of  persons  of 
sensitive  temperament  and  limited  experience,  such  as  Julius, 
this  is  particularly  true.  Putting  off  his  secular  garment,  as  a 
rule  he  could  put  off  secular  thoughts  as  well.  Beneath  the 
severe  and  scanty  folds  of  the  cassock  there  was  small  space  for 
remembrance  of  the  pomp  and  glory  of  this  perishing  world. 
At  least  he  hoped  so.  To-night,  importuned  as  he  had  been 
by  scenes  and  emotions  quite  other  than  ecclesiastical,  Julius 
literally  sought  refuge  in  his  cassock.  It  represented  "  port  after 
stormy  seas," — home,  after  travel  in  lands  altogether  foreign. 

He  took  St.  Augustine's  De  Civifa/e  Dei  from  its  place  in  the 
bookshelves  lining  one  side  of  the  room.  There  should  be 
peace  to  the  soul,  surely,  emancipation  from  questioning  of 
transitory  things,  in  reading  of  the  (Jity  of  Ciod  ?  ]5ut,  alas, 
his  attention  strayed.  That  sense  of  subdued  excitement  was 
upon  him  yet.  He  thought  of  the  conversation  at  dinner,  of 
brilliant  speeches  he  might  have  made,  of  the  encouragement  of 
Katherine's  smiling  eyes  and  sympathetic  speech,  of  the  scene  in 
the  gallery  that  morning,  of  Mary  Cathcart's  old-time  love-ditties. 


38  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

The  City  of  God  was  far  off.  All  these  were  things  very  near 
at  hand.  Notwithstanding  the  scanty  folds  of  the  cassock,  they 
importuned  him  still. 

Pained  at  his  own  lack  of  poise  and  seriousness,  Julius  returned 
the  volume  of  St.  Augustine  to  its  place,  and,  sitting  down  at  the 
writing-table  prepared  to  chronicle  the  day's  events.  Perhaps  by 
putting  a  statement  of  them  on  paper  he  could  rid  himself  of 
their  all  too  potent  influence.  But  his  thought  was  tumultuous, 
words  refused  to  come  in  proper  order  and  sequence ;  and  Julius 
abhorred  that  erasures  should  mar  the  symmetry  of  his  pages. 
Impatiently  he  pushed  the  diary  from  him.  Clearly  it,  like  the 
City  of  God,  was  destined  to  wait. 

The  guests  had  departed.  He  had  heard  the  distant  calling 
of  voices  in  friendly  farewell,  the  rumble  of  departing  wheels. 
The  night  was  very  soft  and  mild.  He  would  go  out  and  walk 
the  grey  flags  of  the  terrace,  till  this  unworthy  restlessness  gave 
place  to  reason  and  calm. 

Passing  along  the  narrow  passage,  he  opened  the  door  on  to 
the  garden-hall.  And  there  paused.  The  hall  itself,  and  the 
inner  side  of  the  carven  arches  of  the  arcade,  were  in  dense 
shadow.  Beyond  stretched  the  terrace  bathed  in  moonlight, 
which  glittered  on  the  polished  leaves  of  the  little  orange  trees, 
on  the  leaded  panes  of  the  many  windows,  and  strangely  trans- 
muted the  colours  of  the  range  of  pot-flowers  massed  beneath 
them  along  the  base  of  the  house.  It  was  a  fairy  world  upon 
which  Julius  looked  forth.  Nor  did  it  need  suitable  inhabitants. 
Pacing  slowly  down  the  centre  of  the  terrace  came  Richard  and 
Katherine  Calmady,  hand  in  hand.  Tall,  graceful,  strong  in  the 
perfection  of  their  youth  and  of  their  great  devotion,  amid  that  ethe- 
real brightness,  they  seemed  as  two  heroic  figures — immortal,  fairy 
lovers  moving  through  the  lovely  wonder  of  that  fairyland.  As 
they  drew  near,  Katherine  stopped,  leant — with  a  superb  abandon 
— back  against  her  husband,  resting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
drew  his  arm  around  her  waist  for  support,  drew  his  face  down 
to  her  upturned  face  until  their  lips  met,  while  the  moonlight 
played  upon  the  jewels  on  her  bare  arms  and  neck  and  gleamed 
softly  on  the  surface  of  her  white,  satin  dress. 

To  true  lovers  the  longest  kiss  is  all  too  sadly  short — a  thing 
brief  almost  in  proportion  to  its  sweetness.  But  to  Julius  March, 
watching  from  the  blackness  of  the  doorway,  it  seemed  a  whole 
eternity  before  Richard  Calmady  raised  his  head.  Then  Julius 
turned  and  fled  down  the  passage  and  back  into  the  chill  study, 
where  the  candles  burned  on  either  side  the  image  of  the  Virgin 
Mother  cradling  the  dead  Christ  upon  her  knee. 


THE  CLOWN  39 

Gentle  persons,  breaking  from  the  lines  of  self-restraint,  run  to 
a  curious  violence  in  emotion.  All  day  long,  shrink  from  it, 
ignore  it,  as  he  might,  a  moral  storm  had  been  brewing.  Now 
it  broke.  Not  from  those  two  lovers  did  Julius  turn  thus  in 
amazement  and  terror ;  but  from  just  that  from  which  it  is  im- 
possible for  anyone  to  turn  in  actual  fact — namely  from  himself. 
He  was  appalled  by  the  narrowness  of  his  own  past  outlook ;  ap- 
palled by  the  splendour  of  that  heritage  which,  by  his  own  act, 
he  had  forfeited.  The  cassock  ceased,  indeed,  to  be  a  refuge, 
the  welcome  livery  of  home  and  rest.  It  had  become  a  prison- 
suit,  a  badge  of  slavery,  against  which  his  whole  being  rebelled. 
For  the  moment — happily  violence  is  shortlived,  only  for  a  very 
little  while  do  even  the  gentlest  persons  "see  red" — asceticism 
appeared  to  him  as  a  blasphemy  against  the  order  of  nature  and 
of  nature's  God.  His  vow  of  perpetual  chastity,  made  with  so 
passionate  an  enthusiasm,  for  the  moment  appeared  to  him  an 
act  of  absolutely  monstrous  vanity  and  self-conceit.  In  his 
stupid  ignorance  he  had  tried  to  be  wiser  than  his  Maker,  pre- 
ferring the  ordinances  of  man  to  the  glad  and  merciful  purposes 
of  God.  In  so  doing  had  he  not,  only  too  possibly,  committed 
the  unpardonable  sin,  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost? 

Poor  Julius,  his  thought  had  indeed  run  almost  humorously 
mad  !  Yet  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  the  breaking  of 
his  self-imposed  bonds  never  occurred  to  him.  Made  in  ignor- 
ance, unwitnessed  though  his  vow  might  be,  it  remained  inviol- 
able. He  never,  even  in  this  most  heated  hour  of  his  trial, 
doubted  that. 

Stretching  out  his  arms,  he  clenched  his  hands  in  anguish  of 
spirit.  The  sacerdotal  pride,  the  subjective  joys  of  self-conse- 
cration, the  mental  luxury  of  feeling  himself  different  from  others, 
singled  out,  set  apart, — all  the  Pharisee,  in  short,  in  Julius  March, 
— was  sick  to  death.  He  had  supposed  he  was  living  to  God — 
and  now  it  appeared  to  him  he  had  lived  only  to  himself.  He 
had  trusted  God  too  little,  had  come  near  reckoning  the  great 
natural  laws  —  which,  after  all,  must  be  of  God's  ordering  — 
common  and  unclean.  Katherine  was  right.  The  eternal 
purpose  is  joy,  not  sorrow ;  youth  and  health,  not  age  and 
decay ;  thankful  acceptance,  not  fastidious  rejection  and  fear. 
Katherine — yes,  Katherine— and  there  the  young  man's  wild 
tirade  stopped — 

He  flung  himself  down  in  front  of  the  writing-table,  leaning 
his  elbows  on  it,  pressing  his  face  upon  his  folded  arms.  For 
in  good  truth,  what  did  it  all  amount  to?  Not  outraged  laws  of 
nature,  not  sins  against  the  Holy  Ghost ;  but  just  simply  this, 


40  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

that  the  common  fate  had  overtaken  him.     He  loved  a  woman, 
and  in  so  loving  had,  at  last,  found  himself. 

The  most  vital  experiences  are  beyond  language.  When 
Julius  looked  up,  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  bronze  pieta,  age-old 
witness  to  the  sanctity  of  motherhood  and  of  suffering  alike. 
His  face  was  wet  with  tears.  He  was  faint  and  weak ;  yet  a 
certain  calm  had  come  to  him.  He  no  longer  quarrelled  — 
though  his  attitude  towards  them  was  greatly  changed — either 
with  his  priestly  calling  or  his  rashly  made  vow.  Not  as  sources 
of  pride  did  he  now  regard  them  ;  but  as  searching  discipline  to 
be  borne  humbly  and  faithfully,  to  the  honour — as  he  prayed — 
both  of  earthly  and  heavenly  love.  He  loved  Katherine,  but  he 
loved  her  husband,  and  that  with  the  fulness  of  a  loyal  and  equal 
friendship.  And  so  no  taint  was  upon  his  love,  of  this  he  felt 
assured.  Indeed,  he  asked  nothing  better  than  that  things  might 
continue  as  they  were  at  Brockhurst ;  and  that  he  might  continue 
to  warm  his  hands  a  little — only  a  little — in  the  dear  sunshine  of 
Richard  and  Katherine  Calmady's  perfect  love. 

As  Julius  rose,  his  knees  gave  under  him.  He  rested  both 
hands  heavily  on  the  table,  looked  down,  saw  the  unsightly 
packet  of  dirty  chap-books.  Again,  and  almost  with  a  cry, 
he  prayed  that  things  might  continue  as  they  were  at  Brock- 
hurst. 

"  Give  peace  in  my  time,  O  Lord ! "  he  said.  Then  he 
wrapped  up  the  little  bundle  carefully,  sealed  and  labelled  it, 
and  locked  it  away  in  one  of  the  table-drawers. 

Thus,  kneeling  before  the  image  of  the  stricken  Mother  and 
the  dead  Christ,  did  Julius  March  behold  the  Vision  of  the  New 
Life.  But  the  page  of  his  diary,  on  which  surely  a  matter  of  so 
great  importance  should  have  been  duly  chronicled,  remains  to 
this  day  a  blank. 

CHAPTER  VI 

ACCIDEXT    OR    DKSTIXY,    ACCORDING    TO    YOUR    Hl'MOUR 

ON  the  iSth  of  October  that  year,  St.  Luke's  day,  a  man 
died,  and  this  was  the  manner  of  his  passing. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  Dr.  Knott  had  gone 
out  of  the  red  drawing-room  on  the  ground  floor  into  the 
tapestry-hung  dining-room  next  door,  which  struck  cold  as  the 
small  hours  drew  on  towards  the  dawn.  And  Julius  March, 
after    reciting    the    prayer     in    which     the    Anglican    Church 


THE  CLOWN  41 

commends  the  souls  of  her  departing  children  to  the  merciful 
keeping  of  the  God  who  gave  them,  had  followed  him.  The 
doctor  was  acutely  distressed.  He  hated  to  lose  a  patient.  He 
also  hated  to  feel  emotion.  It  made  him  angry.  Moreover,  he 
was  intolerant  of  the  presence  of  the  clergy  and  of  their 
ministrations  in  sick-rooms.  He  greeted  poor  Julius  rather 
snarlingly. 

"  So  your  work's  through  as  well  as  mine,"  he  said.  "  No 
disrespect  to  your  cloth,  Mr.  March,  but  I'm  not  altogether 
sorrj'.  I  daresay  I'm  a  bit  of  a  heathen ;  but  I  can't  help 
fancying  the  dying  know  more  of  death,  and  the  way  to  meet 
it,  than  any  of  us  can  teach  them." 

A  group  of  men-servants  stood  about  the  open  door,  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  with  lies,  the  steward,  and  Mr.  Tom 
Chifney,  the  trainer  from  the  racing-stables.  The  latter  ad- 
vanced a  little  and,  clearing  his  throat,  inquired  huskily  : — 

"No  hope  at  all,  doctor?" 

"  Hope  ?  "  he  returned  impatiently. — The  lamp  on  the  great 
bare  dining-table  burned  low,  and  John  Knott's  wide  mouth, 
conical  skull  and  thick,  ungainly  person  looked  ogreish,  almost 
brutal  in  the  uncertain  light. — "There  never  was  a  grain  of  hope 
from  the  first,  except  in  Sir  Richard's  fine  constitution.  He  is 
as  sound  as  only  a  clean-living  man  of  thirty  can  be, — I  wish 
there  were  a  few  more  like  him,  though  your  beastly  diseases 
do  put  money  into  my  pocket, — that  offered  us  a  bare  chance, 
and  we  were  bound  to  act  on  that  chance  "■ — his  loose  lips  worked 
into  a  bitterly  humorous  smile — "and  torture  him.  Well,  I've 
seen  a  good  many  men  under  the  knife  before  now,  and  I  tell 
you  I  never  saw  one  who  bore  himself  better.  Men  and  horses 
alike,  it's  breeding  that  tells  when  it  comes  to  the  push.  You 
know  that,  eh,  Chifney?" 

In  the  red  drawing-room,  where  the  drama  of  this  sad  night 
centred,  Roger  Ormiston  had  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  fire- 
side, his  head  sunk  on  his  chest  and  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets.  He  was  very  tired,  very  miseral)lc.  A  shocking  thing 
had  happened,  and,  in  some  degree,  he  held  himself  responsible 
for  that  happening.  For  was  it  not  he  who  had  been  so  besotted 
with  the  (  lown,  and  keen  about  its  training?  Therefore  the 
young  man  cursed  himself,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind  ;  and 
cursed  his  luck  too,  in  that,  if  this  thing  was  to  happen,  it  had 
not  happened  to  him  instead  of  to  Richard  Calmady. 

Mrs.  Denny,  t,he  housckec[)er,  had  retired  to  a  straight-backed 
chair  stationed  against  the  wall.  She  sal  there,  waiting  till  the 
next  call  should  come  for  her  skilful  nursing,  upright,  her  hands 


42  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

folded  upon  her  silk  apron,  her  attitude  a  model  of  discreet 
and  self-respecting  repose.  Mrs.  Denny  knew  her  place,  and 
had  a  considerable  capacity  for  letting  other  persons  know 
theirs.  She  ruled  the  large  household  with  unruffled  calm. 
But,  to-night,  even  her  powers  of  self-control  were  heavily 
taxed ;  and  though  she  carried  her  head  high,  she  could  not 
help  tears  coursing  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and  falling  sadly 
to  the  detriment  of  the  goffered  frills  of  her  white,  lawn  cross- 
over. 

And  Richard  Calmady,  meanwhile,  lay  still  and  very  fairly 
peaceful  upon  the  narrow,  camp  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
He  had  lain  there,  save  during  one  hour, — the  memory  of  which 
haunted  Katherine  with  hideous  and  sickening  persistence, — ever 
since  Tom  Chifney,  the  head-lad  from  the  stables  and  a  couple 
of  grooms,  had  carried  him  in,  on  a  hurdle,  from  the  steeple- 
chase course  four  days  ago. 

The  crimson-covered  chairs  and  sofas,  and  other  furniture  of 
the  large  square  room,  had  been  pushed  back  against  the  walls 
in  a  sort  of  orderly  confusion,  leaving  a  broad  passage-way 
between  the  doors  at  either  end,  and  a  wide  vacant  space  round 
the  bed.  At  the  head  of  this  stood  a  high,  double-shelved 
what  -  not,  bearing  medicine  bottles,  cups,  basins,  rolled 
bandages,  dressings  of  rag  and  lint,  a  spirit-lamp  over  which 
simmered  a  vessel  containing  vinegar,  and  a  couple  of  shaded 
candles  in  a  tall,  branched,  silver  candlestick.  The  light  from 
these  fell,  in  intersecting  circles,  upon  the  white  bed,  upon  the 
man's  brown,  close-curled  hair,  upon  his  handsome  face — drawn 
and  sharpened  by  suffering  —  and  its  rather  ghastly  three  days' 
growth  of  beard. 

It  fell,  too,  upon  Katherine,  as  she  sat  facing  her  husband, 
the  side  of  her  large  easy-chair  drawn  up  parallel  to  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

Silently,  unlocked  for,  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  the  end  of 
Katherine's  fair  world  had  come.  There  had  been  no  time  for 
forethought  or  preparation.  At  one  step  she  had  been  called 
upon  to  pass  from  the  triumph  to  the  terror  of  mortal  life.  But 
she  was  a  valiant  creature,  and  her  natural  courage  was  rein- 
forced by  the  greatness  of  her  love.  She  met  the  blow  standing, 
her  brain  clear,  her  mind  strong  to  help.  Only  once  had  she 
faltered — during  the  hideous  hour  when  she  waited,  pacing  the 
dining-room  in  the  dusk,  four  evenings  back.  For,  after  consulta- 
tion with  Dr.  Jewsbury  and  Mr.  Thoms  of  Westchurch,  John 
Knott  had  told  her — with  a  gentleness  and  delicacy  a  little 
surprising  in  so  hard-bitten  a  man — that,  owing  to  the  shattered 


THE  CLOWN  43 

condition  of  the  bone,  amputation  of  the  right  leg  was  imperative. 
He  added  that,  only  too  probably,  the  left  would  have  eventually 
to  go  too.  They  must  operate,  he  said,  and  operate  immedi- 
ately. Katherine  had  pleaded  to  be  present ;  but  Dr.  Knott 
was  obdurate. 

"  My  dear  lady,  you  don't  know  what  you  ask,"  he  said. 
"  As  you  love  him,  let  him  be.  If  you  are  there  it  will  just 
double  the  strain.  He'd  suffer  for  you  as  well  as  himself. 
Believe  me  he  will  be  far  best  alone." 

It  must  be  remembered  that  in  1842  anaesthetics  had  not 
robbed  the  operating-room  of  half  its  horrors.  The  victim  went 
to  execution  wide-awake,  with  no  mercy  of  deadened  senses  and 
dulled  brain.  And  so  Katherine  had  paced  the  dining-room, 
hearing  at  intervals,  through  the  closed  doors,  the  short 
peremptory  tones  of  the  surgeons,  fearing  she  heard  more  and 
worse  sounds  than  those.  They  were  hurting  him,  sorely,  sorely, 
dismembering  and  disfiguring  the  dear,  living  body  which  she 
loved.  A  tempest  of  unutterable  woe  swept  over  her.  Breaking 
fiercely  away  from  her  brother  and  Denny — who  strove  to 
comfort  her — she  beat  her  poor,  lovely  head  against  the  wall. 
But  that,  so  far,  had  been  her  one  moment  of  weakness. 
Since  then  she  had  fought  steadily,  with  a  certain  lofty  cheerful- 
ness, for  the  life  she  so  desired  to  save.  The  horror  of  the 
second  operation  had  been  spared  her ;  but  only  because  it 
might  but  too  probably  hasten,  rather  than  retard,  the  approach- 
ing footsteps  of  death.  Mortification  had  set  in,  in  the  bruised 
and  mangled  limb  forty-eight  hours  ago.  And  now  the  scent  of 
death  was  in  the  air.  The  awful  presence  drew  very  near.  Yet 
only  when  doctor  and  priest  alike  rose  and  went,  when  her 
brother  moved  away,  and  even  the  faithful  housekeeper  stepped 
back  from  the  bedside,  did  Katherine's  mind  really  grasp  the 
truth.  Her  well-beloved  lay  dying ;  and  human  tenderness, 
human  skill,  be  they  never  so  great,  ceased  to  avail. 

She  was  worn  by  the  long  vigil.  Her  face  was  colourless. 
Yet  perhaps  Katherine's  beauty  had  never  been  more  rare  and 
sweet  than  as  she  sat  there,  leaning  a  little  forward  in  the 
eagerness  of  her  watchfulness.  The  dark  circles  about  her  eyes 
made  them  look  very  large  and  sombre.  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  turned  down  and  her  under-lip  quivered  now  and  then, 
giving  her  expression  a  childlike  piteousness  of  appeal.  There 
was  no  trace  of  disorder  in  her  appearance.  Her  white  dressing- 
gown  and  all  its  pretty  ribbons  and  laces  were  spotlessly  fresh. 
Her  hair  was  carefully  dressed  as  usual — high  at  the  back, 
showing  the  nape  of  her  neck,  her  little  ears,  and  the  noble  poise 


44  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  her  head.  Katherine  was  not  one  of  those  women  who 
appear  to  imagine  that  slovenUness  is  the  proper  exponent  of 
sorrow. 

Still,  for  all  her  high  courage,  as  the  truth  came  home  to  her, 
her  spirit  began  to  falter  for  the  second  time.  It  is  comparatively 
easy  to  endure  while  there  is  something  to  be  done  ;  but  it  is 
almost  intolerable,  specially  to  the  young  when  hfe  is  strong 
in  them,  merely  to  sit  by  and  wait.  Katherine's  overwrought 
nerves  began  to  play  cruel  tricks  upon  her,  carrying  her  back  in 
imagination  to  that  other  hideous  hour  of  waiting,  in  the  dining- 
room,  four  evenings  ago.  Again  she  seemed  to  hear  the  short, 
peremptory  tones  of  the  surgeons,  and  those  worse  things — the 
stifled  groan  of  one  in  the  extremity  of  physical  anguish,  and  the 
grate  of  a  saw.  These  maddened  her  with  pity,  almost  with 
rage.  She  feared  that  now,  as  then,  she  might  lose  her  self- 
mastery  and  do  some  wild  and  desperate  thing.  She  tried  to 
keep  her  attention  fixed  on  the  quick,  irregular  rise  and  fall  of 
the  linen  sheet  expressing  the  broad,  full  curve  of  the  young 
man's  chest,  as  he  lay  flat  on  his  back,  his  eyes  closed,  but 
whether  in  sleep  or  in  unconsciousness  she  did  not  know.  As 
long  as  the  sheet  rose  and  fell  he  was  alive  at  all  events,  still 
with  her.  But  she  was  too  exhausted  for  any  sustained  effort 
of  will.  And  her  glance  wandered  back  to,  and  followed  with 
agonised  comprehension,  the  formless,  motionless  elevation  and 
depression  of  that  same  sheet  towards  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

The  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  grow  more  oppressive,  the 
silence  to  deepen,  and  with  it  the  terrible  tension  of  her  mind 
increased.  Suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet.  The  logs  burning 
in  the  grate  had  fallen  together  with  a  crash,  sending  a  rush  of 
ruddy  flame  and  an  innumerable  army  of  hurrying  sparks  up 
the  wide  chimney.  All  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling — all  the 
crossing  bars  and  sinuous  lines  of  the  richly-worked  pattern,  all 
the  depending  bosses  and  roses  of  it,  all  the  foliations  of  the 
deep  cornice — sprang  into  bold  relief,  outlined,  splashed,  and 
stained  with  living  scarlet.  And  this  universal  redness  of  carpet, 
curtains,  furniture,  and  now  of  ceiling,  even  of  white-draped  bed, 
suggested  to  Katherine's  distracted  fancy  another  thing — unseen, 
yet  known  during  her  other  hour  of  waiting — namely  blood. 

Roused  by  the  crash  of  the  falling  logs  and  the  rustle  of 
Katherine's  garments  as  she  sprang  up,  Richard  Calmady  opened 
his  eyes.  For  a  few  seconds  his  glance  wavered  in  vague 
distress  and  perplexity.  Then,  as  fuller  consciousness  returned 
of  how  it  all  was  with  him,  with  a  slight  lifting  of  the  eyebrows 
his  glance  steadied  upon  Katherine  and  he  smiled. 


THE  CLOWN  45 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Kitty,"  he  whispered,  "it  takes  a  long  time, 
doesn't  it,  this  business  of  dying  ?  " 

Katherine's  evil  fancies  vanished.  As  soon  as  the  demand 
for  action  came  she  grew  calm  and  sane.  The  ceiling  and 
sheets  were  white  again  and  her  mind  was  clear. 

"  Are  you  easy,  my  dearest  ?  "  she  asked.     "  In  less  pain  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no,  I'm  not  in  pain.  But  everything  seems 
to  sink  away  from  me,  and  I  float  right  out.  It's  all  dream  and 
mist — except — except  just  now  your  face." 

Katherine's  lips  quivered  too  much  for  speech.  She  moved 
swiftly  across  to  the  what-not  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  If  he 
did  not  suffer,  there  could  be  no  selfishness,  surely,  in  trying 
to  keep  death  at  bay  for  a  little  space  yet?  But,  alas,  with 
what  grotesquely  paltry  and  inadequate  weapons  are  all — even 
the  most  gallant— reduced  to  fighting  death  at  the  last  1  Here, 
on  the  one  hand,  a  half  wine  glass  of  champagne  in  a  china 
feeding-cup,  with  a  teapot-like  spout  to  it,  or  a  few  spoonfuls  of 
jelly,  backed  by  the  passion  of  a  woman's  heart.  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  ranged  against  this  pitiful  display  of  absurdly  limited 
resources, — as  the  hosts  of  the  Philistines  against  the  little  army 
of  Israel,  —  resistless  laws  of  nature,  incalculably  far-reaching 
^orces,  physical  and  spiritual,  the  interminable  progression  of 
cause  and  effect ! 

Denny  joined  Lady  Calmady  at  the  table.  The  two  women 
held  brief  consultation.  Then  the  housekeeper  went  round  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  bed,  and  slipping  her  arm  under  the  pillows 
gently  raised  Richard's  head  and  shoulders,  while  Katherine, 
kneeling  beside  him,  held  the  spout  of  the  feeding-cup  to  his  lips. 

"  Must  I  ?  I  don't  think  I  can  manage  it,"  he  said,  drawing 
away  slightly  and  closing  his  eyes. 

But  Katherine  persisted. 

"Oh  !  try  to  drink  it,"  she  pleaded,  "never  mind  how  little 
— only  try.     Help  me  to  keep  you  here  just  as  long  as  I  can." 

The  young  man's  glance  steadied  on  to  her  once  again,  and 
his  eyes  and  lips  smiled  the  same  faint,  wholly  gracious  smile. 

"All  right,  my  beloved,"  he  said.  "A  little  higher,  Denny, 
please." 

Not  without  jjainful  effort  and  a  choking  contraction  of  the 
throat,  he  swallowed  a  few  drops.  But  the  greater  jiart  of  the 
draught  spilt  out  sideways,  and  would  have  dribbled  down  on 
to  the  pillows  had  not  Katherine  held  her  handkerchief  to  his 
mouth. 

Ormiston,  who  had  been  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  in 
the  hope  of  rendering  some  assistance,  ground  his  teeth  together 


46  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

with  a  half-audible  imprecation,  and  went  slowly  over  to  the 
fireplace  again.  He  had  supposed  himself  as  miserable  as  he 
well  could  be  before.  But  this  incident  of  the  feeding-cup  was 
the  climax,  somehow.  It  struck  him  as  an  intolerable  humiliation 
and  outrage  that  Richard  Calmady,  splendid  fellow  as  he  was, 
gifted,  high-bred  gentleman,  should,  of  all  men,  come  to  this 
sorry  pass !  He  was  filled  with  impotent  fury.  And  was  it 
this  pass,  indeed,  he  asked  himself,  to  which  every  human 
creature  must  needs  come  one  day  ?  Would  he,  Roger 
Ormiston,  one  day,  find  himself  thus  weak  and  broken,  his 
body — now  so  lively  a  source  of  various  enjoyment — degraded 
into  a  pest-house,  a  mere  dwelling-place  of  suffering  and  corrup- 
tion ?  The  young  man  gripped  the  high,  narrow  mantelshelf 
with  both  hands  and  pressed  his  forehead  down  between  them. 
He  really  had  not  the  nerve  to  watch  what  was  going  forward 
over  there  any  longer.  It  was  too  painful.  It  knocked  all  the 
manhood  out  of  him.  But  for  very  shame,  before  those  two 
calm,  devoted  women,  he  would  have  broken  down  and  wept. 

Presently  Richard's  voice  reached  him,  feeble  yet  uncom- 
plaining. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  but  you  see  it's  no  use,  Kitty.  The  machinery 
won't  work.  Let  me  lie  flat  again,  Denny,  please.  That's 
better,  thanks." 

Then  after  a  few  moments  of  laboured  breathing,  he  added  : — 

"You  mustn't  trouble  any  more,  it  only  disappoints  you. 
We  have  just  got  to  submit  to  fact,  my  beloved.  I've  taken  my 
last  fence." 

Ormiston's  shoulders  heaved  convulsively  as  he  leaned  his 
forehead  against  the  cold,  marble  edge  of  the  chimneypiece. 
His  brother-in-law's  words  brought  the  whole  dreadful  picture  up 
before  him.  Oh !  that  cursed  slip  and  fall,  that  struggling, 
plunging,  frenzied  horse  ! — And  how  the  horse  had  plunged  and 
struggled,  good  God  !  It  seemed  as  though  Chifney,  the  grooms, 
all  of  them,  would  never  get  hold  of  it  or  draw  Richard  out  from 
beneath  the  pounding  hoofs.  And  then  Ormiston  went  over  his 
own  share  in  the  business  again,  lamenting,  blaming  himself. 
Yet  what  more  natural,  after  all,  than  that  he  should  have  set  his 
affections  on  the  Clown  ?  Chifney  believed  in  the  horse  too — a 
five-year-old  brother  of  Touchstone,  resembling,  in  his  black- 
brown  skin  and  intelligent,  white-reach  face,  that  celebrated 
horse,  and  inheriting  —  less  enviable  distinction — the  high 
shoulders  and  withers  of  his  sire  Camel.  If  the  Clown  did  not 
make  a  name.  Captain  Ormiston  had  sworn,  by  all  the  gods  of 
sport,  he  would  never  judge  a  horse  again.     And,  Heaven  help 


THE  CLOWN  47 

us,  was  this  the  ghastly  way  the  Clown's  name  was  to  be  made, 
then? 

The  room  grew  very  quiet  again,  save  for  a  strange  gurgling, 
rattling  sound  Richard  Calmady  made,  at  times,  in  breathing. 
Mrs.  Denny  had  retired  beyond  the  circle  of  firelight.  And 
Katherine,  having  dra>vn  her  chair  a  little  farther  forward  so 
that  the  foot  of  the  bed  might  be  out  of  sight,  sat  holding  her 
husband's  hand,  softly  caressing  his  wrist  and  palm  with  her 
finger-tips.  Soon  the  slow  movement  of  her  fingers  ceased, 
while  she  felt,  in  quick  fear,  for  the  fluttering,  intermittent  pulse. 
Richard's  breathing  had  become  more  diiificult.  He  moved  his 
head  restlessly  and  plucked  at  the  sheet  with  his  right  hand.  It 
was  a  little  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear. 

Katherine  called  to  him  softly  under  her  breath  : — "  Richard, 
Dick,  my  darling  ! " 

"  All  right,  I'm  coming." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  as  in  sudden  terror. 

"  Oh  !  I  say,  though,  what's  happened  ?     Where  am  I  ?  " 

Katherine  leant  down,  kissed  his  hand,  caressed  it. 

"Here,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  "at  home,  at  Brockhurst, 
with  me." 

"  Ah  yes  ! "  he  said,  "  of  course,  I  remember,  I'm  dying.'* 
He  waited  a  little  space,  and  then,  turning  his  head  on  the 
pillow  so  as  to  have  a  better  view  of  her,  spoke  again : — 
"  I  was  floating  right  out — the  under-tow  had  got  me — it  was 
sucking  me  down  into  the  deep  sea  of  mist  and  dreams.  I  was 
so  nearly  gone — and  you  brought  me  back." 

"  But  I  wanted  you  so — I  wanted  you  so,"  Katherme  cried, 
smitten  with  sudden  contrition.  "I  could  not  help  it.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"You  silly  sweet,  could  I  ever  mind  coming  back  to  you?" 
he  asked  wistfully.  "  Don't  you  suppose  I  would  much  rather 
stay  here  at  Brockhurst,  at  home,  with  you — than  sink  away  into 
the  unknown  ?" 

"Ah  !  my  dear,"  she  said,  swaying  herself  to  and  fro  in  the 
misery  of  tearless  grief. 

"  And  yet  I  have  no  call  to  complain,"  he  went  on.  "  I  have 
had  thirty  years  of  life  and  health.  It  is  not  a  small  thing  to 
have  seen  the  sun,  and  to  have  rejoiced  in  one's  youth.  And 
I  have  had  you" — his  face  hardened  and  his  breath  came  short 
— "you,  most  enchanting  of  women." 

"My  dear !  my  dear !"  Katherine  cried,  again  bowing  her  head. 

"  God  has  been  so  good  to  me  here  that — I  hope  it  is  not 
presumptuous — I  can't  be  much  afraid  of  what  is  to  follow.     The 


48  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

best  argument  for  what  will  be,  is  what  has  been.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"  But  you  go  and  I  stay,"  she  said.  "  If  I  could  only  go  too, 
go  with  you." 

Richard  Calmady  raised  himself  in  the  bed,  looked  hard  at 
her,  spoke  as  a  man  in  the  fulness  of  his  strength. 

"Do  you  mean  that?  Would  you  come  with  me  if  you 
could — come  through  the  deep  sea  of  mist  and  dreams,  to 
whatever  lies  beyond?" 

For  all  answer  Katherine  bent  lower,  her  face  suddenly 
radiant,  notwithstanding  its  pallor.  Sorrow  was  still  so  new  a 
companion  to  her  that  she  would  dare  the  most  desperate 
adventures  to  rid  herself  of  its  hateful  presence.  Her  reason 
and  moral  sense  were  in  abeyance,  only  her  poor  heart  spoke. 
She  laid  hold  of  her  husband's  hands  and  clasped  them  about 
her  throat. 

"  Let  us  go  together,  take  me,"  she  prayed.  "  I  love  youj  I 
will  not  be  left.     Closer,  Dick,  closer  ! " 

"  Thank  God,  I  am  strong  enough  even  yet !  "  he  said  fiercely, 
while  his  jaw  set,  and  his  grasp  tightened  somewhat  dangerously 
upon  her  throat.  Katherine  looked  into  his  eyes  and  laughed. 
The  blood  was  tingling  through  her  veins. 

"Ah  !  dear  love,"  she  panted,  "if  you  knew  how  delicious  it 
is  to  be  a  little  hurt ! " 

But  her  ecstasy  was  shortlived,  as  ecstasy  usually  is.  Richard 
Calmady  unclasped  his  hands  and  dropped  back  against  the 
pillows,  putting  her  away  from  him  with  a  certain  authority. 

"My  beloved  one,  do  not  tempt  me,"  he  said.  "We  must 
remember  the  child.  The  devil  of  jealousy  is  very  great,  even 
when  one  lies,  as  I  do  now,  more  than  half  dead." — He  turned 
his  head  away,  and  his  voice  shook.  "  Ten  years  hence,  twenty 
years  hence,  you  will  be  as  beautiful — more  so,  very  likely — than 
ever.     Other  men  will  see  you,  and  I " — 

"You  will  be  just  what  you  were  and  always  have  been  to 
me,"  Katherine  interrupted.     "  I  love  you,  and  shall  love." 

She  answered  bravely,  taking  his  hand  again  and  caressing 
it,  while  he  looked  round  and  smiled  at  her.  But  she  grew 
curiously  cold.  She  shivered,  and  had  a  difficulty  in  controlling 
her  speech.  Her  new  companion.  Sorrow,  refused  to  be  tricked 
and  to  leave  her,  and  the  breath  of  sorrow  is  as  sharp  as  a  wind 
blowing  over  ice. 

"You  have  made  me  perfectly  content,"  Richard  Calmady 
said  presently.  "  There  is  nothing  I  would  have  changed.  No 
hour  of  day — or  night — ah,  my  God  !  my  God  ! — which  I  could 


THE  CLOWN  49 

ask  to  have  otherwise."     He  paused,  fighting  a  sob  which  rose 
in  his  throat.     "  Still  you  are  quite  young  " — 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  me,"  Katherine  said. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  put  in  quietly.  "Any- 
how, remember  that  you  are  free,  absolutely  and  unconditionally 
free.  I  hold  a  man  a  cur  who,  in  dying,  tries  to  bind  the  woman 
he  loves." 

Katherine  shivered.      Despair  had  possession  of  her. 

"  Why  reason  about  it?"  she  asked.  "  Uon't  you  see  that  to 
be  bound  is  the  only  comfort  I  shall  have  left  ?" 

"  My  poor  darling,"  Richard  Calmady  almost  groaned. 

His  own  helplessness  to  help  her  cut  him  to  the  quick. 
Wealth,  and  an  inherent  graciousness  of  disposition,  had  always 
made  it  so  simple  to  be  of  service  and  of  comfort  to  those  about 
him.  It  was  so  natural  to  rule,  to  decide,  to  alleviate,  to  give 
little  trouble  to  others  and  take  a  good  deal  of  trouble  on  their 
behalf,  that  his  present  and  final  incapacity  in  any  measure  to 
shield  even  Katherine,  the  woman  he  worshipped,  amazed  him. 
Not  pain,  not  bodily  disfigurement, — though  he  recoiled,  as  every 
sane  being  must,  from  these, — not  death  itself,  tried  his  spirit  so 
bitterly  as  his  own  uselessness.  All  the  pleasant,  kindly  activities 
of  common  intercourse  were  over.  He  was  removed  alike  from 
good  deeds  and  from  bad.  He  had  ceased  to  have  part  or  lot 
in  the  affairs  of  living  men.  The  desolation  of  impotence  was 
upon  him. 

For  a  little  time  he  lay  very  still,  looking  up  at  the  firelight 
playing  upon  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling,  trying  to  reconcile 
himself  to  this.  His  mind  was  clear,  yet,  except  when  actually 
speaking,  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep  his  attention  fixed. 
Images,  sensations,  began  to  chase  each  other  across  his  mental 
field  of  vision  ;  and  his  thought,  though  definite  as  to  detail,  grew 
increasingly  broken  and  incoherent,  small  matters  in  unseemly 
fashion  jostling  great.  He  wondered  concerning  those  first  steps 
of  the  disembodied  spirit,  when  it  has  crossed  the  threshold  of 
death ;  and  then,  incontinently,  he  passed  to  certain  time- 
honoured  jokes  and  imi^ertinent  follies  at  I'ton,  over  which  he, 
and  Roger,  and  Major  St.  Quentin,  had  laughed  a  hundred  times. 
They  amused  him  greatly  even  yet.  But  he  could  not  linger 
with  them.  He  was  troubled  about  the  attics  of  the  new  lodge, 
now  in  building  at  the  entrance  to  the  east  woods.  The 
windows  were  too  small,  and  he  disliked  that  blind,  north  gable. 
There  were  letters  to  he  answered  too.  Lord  I'allowfeild  wanted 
to  know  about  something^he  could  not  remember  what— 
Fallowfeild's    inquiries   had   a   habit    of    being    vague.       And 

4 


so  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

through  all  these  things — serious  or  trivial — a  terrible  yearning 
over  Katharine  and  her  baby — the  new,  little,  human  life  which 
was  his  own  life,  and  which  yet  he  would  never  know  or  see. 
And  through  all  these  things  also,  the  perpetual,  heavy  ache  of 
those  severed  nerves  and  muscles,  flitting  pains  in  the  limb  of 
which,  though  it  was  gone,  he  had  not  ceased  to  be  aware. — He 
dozed  off,  and  mortal  weakness  closed  down  on  him,  floating 
him  out  and  out  into  vague  spaces.  And  then  suddenly,  once 
more,  he  felt  a  horse  under  him  and  gripped  it  with  his  knees. 
He  was  riding,  riding,  whole  and  vigorous,  with  the  summer 
wind  in  his  face,  across  vast,  flowering  pastures  towards  a  great 
light  on  the  far  horizon,  which  streamed  forth,  as  he  knew,  from 
the  throne  of  Almighty  God. 

Choking,  with  the  harsh  rattle  in  his  throat,  he  awoke  to  the 
actual  and  immediate — to  the  familiar,  square  room  and  its 
crimson  furnishings,  to  Katherine's  sweet,  pale  face  and  the 
touch  of  her  caressing  fingers,  to  someone  standing  beside  her, 
whom  he  did  not  immediately  recognise.  It  was  Roger — Roger 
worn  with  watching,  grown  curiously  older.  But  a  certain  exhil- 
aration, born  of  that  strange  ride,  remained  by  Richard  Calmady. 
Both  ache  of  body  and  distress  of  mind  had  abated.  He  felt  a 
lightness  of  spirit,  an  eagerness,  as  of  one  setting  forth  on  a 
promised  journey,  who — not  unlovingly,  yet  with  something  of 
haste — makes  his  dispositions  before  he  starts. 

"  Look  here,  darling,"  he  said,  "  you'll  let  the  stables  go  on 
just  as  usual.  Chifney  will  take  over  the  whole  management  of 
them.  You  can  trust  him  implicitly.  And — that  is  you,  Roger, 
isn't  it  ? — you'll  keep  an  eye  on  things,  won't  you,  so  that  Kitty 
shall  have  no  bother?  I  should  like  to  know  nothing  was 
changed  at  the  stables.  They've  been  a  great  hobby  of  mine, 
and  if — if  the  baby  is  a  boy,  he  may  take  after  me  and  care  for 
them.  Make  him  ride  straight,  Roger.  And  teach  him  to  love 
sport  for  its  own  sake,  dear  old  man,  as  a  gentleman  should,  not 
for  the  money  that  may  come  out  of  it." 

He  waited,  struggling  for  breath,  then  his  hand  closed  on 
Katherine's. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said.  "You'll  call  the  boy  after  me,  Kitty, 
won't  you  ?  I  want  there  to  be  another  Richard  Calmady.  My 
life  has  been  very  happy,  so,  please  God,  the  name  will  bring 
luck." 

A  spasm  took  him,  and  he  tried  convulsively  to  push  off  the 
sheet.  Katherine  was  down  on  her  knees,  her  right  arm  under 
his  head,  while  with  her  left  hand  she  stripped  the  bedclothes 
away  from  his  chest  and  bared  his  throat. 


THE  CLOWN  51 

"Denny,  Denny!"  she  cried,  "come — tell  me — is  this 
death?" 

And  Ormiston,  impelled  by  an  impulse  he  could  hardly  have 
explained,  crossed  the  room,  dragged  back  the  heavy  curtains, 
and  flung  one  of  the  casements  wide  open. 

The  soft  light  of  autumn  dawn  flowed  in  through  the  great 
mullioned  window,  quenching  the  redness  of  fire  and  candles, 
spreading,  dim  and  ghostly,  over  the  white  dress  and  bowed  head 
of  the  woman,  over  the  narrow  bed  and  the  form  of  the  maimed 
and  dying  man.  The  freshness  of  the  morning  air,  laden  with 
the  soothing  murmur  of  the  fir  forest  swaying  in  the  breath  of  a 
mild,  westerly  breeze,  laden  too  with  the  moist  fragrance  of  the 
moorland, — of  dewy  grass,  of  withered  bracken  and  fallen  leaves, — 
flowed  in  also,  cleansing  the  tainted  atmosphere  of  the  room. 
While,  from  the  springy  turf  of  the  green  ride — which  runs 
eastward,  parallel  to  the  lime  avenue — came  the  thud  and  suck 
of  hoofs,  and  the  voices  of  the  stable  boys,  as  they  rode  the  long 
string  of  dancing,  snorting  racehorses  out  to  the  training  ground 
for  their  morning  exercise. 

Richard  Calmady  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"  Ah,  it's  daylight !  "  he  cried,  in  accents  of  joyfulness.  "  I  am 
glad.  Kiss  me,  my  beloved,  kiss  me. — You  dear — yes,  once 
more.  I  have  had  such  a  queer  night.  I  dreamt  I  had  been 
fc-arfully  knocked  about  somehow,  and  was  crippled,  and  in  pain. 
It  is  good  to  wake,  and  find  you,  and  know  I'm  all  right  after 
all.  God  keep  you,  my  dearest,  you  and  the  boy.  I  am  long- 
ing to  see  him — but  not  just  now — let  Denny  bring  him  later. 
And  tell  them  to  send  Chifney  word  I  shall  not  be  out  to  see 
the  gallops  this  morning.  I  really  believe  those  dreams  half 
frightened  me.  I  feel  so  absurdly  used  up.  And  then — Kitty, 
where  arc  you  ? — put  your  arms  round  me  and  I'll  go  to  sleep 
again." 

He  smiled  at  her  quite  naturally  and  stroked  her  cheek. 

"  My  sweet,  your  face  is  all  wet  and  cold  !  "  he  said.  "  Make 
Richard  a  good  boy.  After  all  that  is  what  matters  most — 
Julius  will  help  you — Ah  !  look  at  the  sunrise — why — why  " — 

An  extraordinary  change  passed  over  him.  To  Katherine 
it  seemed  like  the  upward  leap  of  a  livid  flame.  Then  his 
head  fell  back  and  his  jaw  dropped. 


S2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

CHAPTER  VH 

>1KS.    WILLIAM    OllMlSTON    SACHIFICKS    A    WINE    GLASS    TO    FATK 

MRS.  ST.  QUENTIN'S  health  became  increasingly  fragile 
that  autumn  ;  and  the  weight  of  the  sorrow  which  had 
fallen  upon  Brockhurst  bowed  her  to  the  earth.  Her  desire  was 
to  go  to  Lady  Calmady,  wrap  her  about  with  tenderness  and 
strengthen  her  in  patience.  But,  though  the  spirit  was  willing, 
the  flesh  was  weak.  Daily  she  assured  Mademoiselle  de 
Mirancourt  that  she  was  better,  that  she  would  be  able  to  start 
for  England  in  the  course  of  the  next  week.  Yet  day  after  day, 
week  after  week,  passed  by,  and  still  the  two  ladies  lingered  in 
the  pretty  apartment  of  the  rue  de  Rennes.  Day  by  day,  and 
week  by  week,  moreover,  the  elder  lady  grew  more  feeble,  left  her 
bed  later  in  the  morning,  sought  it  earlier  at  night,  finally  resigned 
the  attempt  to  leave  it  at  all.  The  keepers  of  Lucia  St.  Quentin's 
house  of  life  trembled,  desire — even  of  gentle  ministries — began 
to  fail,  the  sound  of  the  grinding  was  low.  Yet  neither  she,  nor 
her  lifelong  friend,  nor  her  doctor,  nor  the  few  intimate  ac- 
quaintances who  were  still  privileged  to  visit  her,  admitted  that 
she  would  never  set  forth  on  that  journey  to  England  at  all,  but 
only  on  that  quite  other  journey, — upon  which  Richard  Calmady 
had  already  set  forth  in  the  fulness  of  his  manhood, — and  upon 
which,  the  manifold  uncertainties  of  human  existence  notwith- 
standing, we  are,  each  one  of  us,  so  perfectly  certain  to  set  forth 
at  last.  Silently  they  agreed  with  her  to  treat  her  increasing 
weakness  with  delicate  stoicism,  to  speak  of.it — if  at  all — merely 
as  a  passing  indisposition,  so  allowing  no  dreary,  lamentable 
element  to  obtrude  itself.  Sad  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  might  be, 
bitterly  sad  at  heart,  perplexed  by  the  rather  incomprehensible 
dealings  of  God  with  man.  Yet,  to  the  end,  she  would  remain 
charming,  gently  gay  even,  both  out  of  consideration  for  otliers 
and  out  of  a  fine  self-respect,  since  she  held  it  the  mark  of  a 
cowardly  and  ignoble  nature  to  let  anything  squalid  appear  in  her 
attitude  towards  grief,  old  age,  or  death. 

But  Brockhurst  she  would  never  see  again.  The  way  was  too 
great  for  her.  And  so  it  came  about  that  when  Lady  Calmady's 
child  was  born,  towards  the  end  of  the  following  March,  no  more 
staid  and  responsible  woman-creature  of  her  family  was  at  hand 
to  support  her  than  that  lively,  young  lady,  her  brother,  William 
Ormiston's  wife. 


THE  CLOWN  53 

Meanwhile,  the  parish  of  Sandyfield  rejoiced.  Thomas 
Caryll,  the  rector,  had  caused  the  church  bells  to  be  rung 
immediately  on  receipt  of  the  good  news ;  while  he  selected,  as 
text  for  his  Sunday-morning  sermon,  those  words,  usually  reserved 
to  another  and  somewhat  greater  advent — "  For  unto  us  a  child  is 
born,  unto  us  a  son  is  given."  Good  Mr.  Caryll  was  innocent  of 
the  remotest  intention  of  profanity.  But  his  outlook  was  circum- 
scribed, his  desire  to  please  abnormally  large,  and  his  sense 
of  relative  values  slight.  While  that  Lady  Calmady  should  give 
birth  to  a  son  and  heir  was,  after  all,  a  matter  of  no  small  moment 
— locally  considered  at  all  events. 

Brockhurst  House  rejoiced  also,  yet  it  did  so  not  without 
a  measure  of  fear.  For  there  had  been  twenty-four  hours 
(if  acute  anxiety  regarding  Katherine  Calmady.  And  even 
now,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  although  Dr.  Knott 
declared  himself  satisfied  both  as  to  her  condition  and  that 
of  the  baby,  an  air  of  mystery  surrounded  the  large,  state  bed- 
room— where  she  lay,  white  and  languid,  slowly  feeling  her  way 
back  to  the  ordinary  conditions  of  existence — and  the  nursery 
next  door.  Mrs.  Denny,  who  had  taken  possession  by  right 
divine  of  long  and  devoted  service,  not  only  did  not  encourage, 
but  positively  repulsed  visitors.  Her  ladyship  must  not  be 
disturbed.  She,  the  nurse,  the  baby,  in  turn,  were  sleeping. 
According  to  Denny  the  god  of  sleep  reigned  supreme  in  those 
stately,  white-panelled  chambers,  looking  away,  across  the  valley 
and  the  long  lines  of  the  elm  avenue,  to  the  faint  blue  of 
the  chalk  downs  rising  against  the  southern  sky. 

John  Knott  had  driven  over,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  in 
the  windy  March  sunset.  He  fell  in  very  readily  with  Mrs 
Ormiston's  suggestion  that  he  should  remain  to  dinner.  That 
young  lady's  spirits  were  sensibly  on  the  rise.  It  is  true  that 
she  had  wept  copiously  at  intervals  while  her  sister-in-law's  life 
app'-ared  to  be  in  danger — keeping  at  the  same  time  as  far  from 
thu  sick-room  as  the  ample  limits  of  Brockhurst  House  allowed, 
and  wishing  herself  a  tliousand  and  one  times  safe  back  in  Paris, 
wliere  her  devoted  and  obedient  husband  occupied  a  subordinate 
post  at  the  English  Embassy.  But  Mrs.  Ormiston's  tears  were  as 
easily  stanched  as  set  flowing.  And  now,  in  her  capacity  of 
hostess,  with  three  gentlemen — or  rather  "two  and  a  half,  for 
you  can't,"  as  she  remarked,  "count  a  brother-in-law  for  a  whole 
one" — as  audience,  she  fi,'It  remarkably  cheerful.  She  had  been 
over  to  Newlands  during  the  afternoon,  and  insisted  on  Mary 
C!athcart  returning  with  her.  Mrs.  Ormiston  was  a  Desmolyns. 
Tlie  Cathcarts  are  distantly  connected  with  that  family.     And, 


54  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

when  the  girl  had  protested  that  this  was  hardly  a  suitable 
moment  for  a  visit  to  Brockhurst,  Charlotte  Ormiston  had 
replied,  with  that  hint  of  a  brogue  which  gave  her  ready  speech 
its  almost  rollicking  character  : — 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  propriety  demands  it.  I  depart  myself 
to-morrow.  And,  now  that  we're  recovering  our  tone,  I  daren't 
be  left  with  such  a  houseful  of  men  on  my  hands  any  longer. 
While  we  were  tearing  our  hair  over  poor  Kitty's  possible  demise, 
and  agonising  as  to  the  uncertain  sex  of  the  baby,  it  did  not 
matter.  But  now  even  that  dear  creature.  Saint  Julius,  is  begin- 
ning to  pick  up,  and  looks  less  as  [if  his  diet  was  mouldy  peas 
and  his  favourite  plaything  a  cat-o'-nine-tails.  Scourge? — Yes, 
of  course,  but  it's  all  the  same  in  the  application  of  the  instrument, 
you  know.  And  then  in  your  secret  soul,  Mary  dear,"  she 
added,  not  unkindly,  "  there's  no  denying  it's  far  from  obnoxious 
to  you  to  spend  a  trifle  of  time  in  the  society  of  Roger." 

Mrs  Ormiston  carried  her  point.  It  may  be  stated,  in 
passing,  that  this  sprightly,  young  matron  was  brilliantly  pretty, 
though  her  facial  angle  might  be  deemed  too  acute,  leaving 
somewhat  to  be  desired  in  the  matter  of  forehead  and  of  chin. 
She  was  plump,  graceful,  and  neat  waisted.  Her  skin  was 
exquisitely  white  and  fine,  and  a  charming  colour  flushed  her 
cheeks  under  excitement.  Her  hair  was  always  untidy,  her 
hairpins  displaying  abnormal  activity  in  respect  of  escape  and 
independent  action.  Her  eyes  were  round  and  very  prominent, 
suggestive  of  highly-polished,  brown  agates.  She  was  not  the 
least  shy  or  averse  to  attracting  attention.  She  laughed  much, 
and  practised,  as  prelude  to  her  laughter,  an  impudently, 
coquettish,  little  stare. — And  that,  finally,  as  he  sat  on  her  right 
at  dinner,  her  rattling  talk  and  lightness  of  calibre  generally  struck 
John  Knott  as  rather  cynically  inadequate  to  the  demands  made 
by  her  present  position.  Not  that  he  underrated  her  good-nature 
or  was  insensible  to  her  personal  attractions.  But  the  doctor 
was  in  search  of  an  able  coadjutor  just  then,  blessed  with  a 
steady  brain  and  a  tongue  skilled  in  tender  diplomacies.  For 
there  were  trying  things  to  be  said  and  done,  and  he  needed 
a  woman  of  a  fine  spirit  to  do  and  say  them  aright. 

"  Head  like  an  eft,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  course  followed 
course  and,  while  bandying  compliments  with  her,  he  watched 
and  listened.  "  As  soon  set  a  harlequin  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope. 
Well  it's  to  be  trusted  her  husband's  some  use  for  her — that's 
more  than  I  have  anyhow,  so  the  sooner  we  see  her  off  the 
premises  the  better.  Suppose  I  shall  have  to  fall  back  on 
Ormiston.     Bit  of  a  rake,  I  expect,  though  in  looks  he  is  so 


THE  CLOWN  5  5 

curiously   like   that   beautiful,    innocent,   young   thing  upstairs. 
Wonder  how  he'll  take  it  ?     No  mistake,  it's  a  facer ! " 

Dr.  Knott  settled  himself  back  squarely  in  his  chair  and 
pushed  his  cheese-plate  away  from  him,  while  his  shaggy  eye- 
brows drew  together  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  young  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table. 

"  A  facer  !  "  he  repeated  to  himself.  "  Yes,  the  ancients  knew 
what  they  were  about  in  these  awkward  matters.  The  modern 
conscience  is  disastrously  anaemic." 

Although  it  looks  on  the  terrace,  the  dining-room  at 
Brockhurst  is  among  the  least  cheerful  of  the  living  rooms. 
The  tapestry  with  which  it  is  hung — representing  French  hunting 
scenes,  each  panel  set  in  a  broad  border  pattern  of  birds,  fruits 
and  leaves,  interspersed  with  classic  urns  and  medallions — is 
worked  in  neutral  tints  of  brown,  blue,  and  grey.  The  chimney- 
piece,  reaching  the  whole  height  of  the  wall,  is  of  liver-coloured 
marble.  At  the  period  in  question,  it  was  still  the  fashion  to 
dine  at  the  modestly  early  hour  of  six  ;  and,  the  spring  evenings 
being  long,  the  curtains  had  been  left  undrawn,  so  that  the  dying 
daylight  without  and  the  lamplight  within  contended  rather 
mournfully  for  mastery,  while  a  wild,  south-easterly  wind,  breaking 
in  gusts  against  the  house  front,  sobbed  at  the  casements  and 
made  a  loose  pane,  here  and  there,  click  and  rattle. 

And  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  notably  heavy  gust,  when  dessert 
had  been  served  and  the  servants  had  left  the  room,  that  Captain 
Ormiston  leaned  across  the  table  and  addressed  his  sister-in-law. 

The  young  soldier  had  been  somewhat  gloomy  and  silent 
during  dinner.  He  was  vaguely  anxious  about  Lady  Calmady. 
The  news  of  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  was  critical,  and  he  cherished 
a  very  true  affection  for  his  great-aunt.  Had  she  not  been 
his  confidante  ever  since  his  first  term  at  Eton  ?  Had  she  not, 
moreover,  helped  him  on  several  occasions  when  creditor^ 
displayed  an  incomprehensibly  foolish  pertinacity  regarding 
payment  for  goods  supplied?  He  was  burdened  too  by  a 
I)rospective  sense  of  his  own  uncommon  righteousness.  For, 
during  the  past  five  months  while  he  had  been  on  leave  at 
Brockhurst,  assisting  Katherine  to  master  the  details  of  the  very 
various  business  of  the  estate,  Ormiston  had  revised  his  position 
and  decided  on  heroic  measures  of  reform.  He  would  rid 
himself  of  debt,  forswear  expensive  London  habits,  and  those 
many  pleasant  inicjuitics  which  every  great  city  offers  liberally 
to  such  handsome,  fine  gentlemen  as  himself.  He  actually 
proposed,  just  so  soon  as  Katherine  could  conveniently  spare 
him,  to  decline  from  the  splendid  inactivity  of  the  Guards,  upon 


56  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  hard  work  of  some  line  regiment  under  orders  for  foreign 
service.  Ormiston  was  quite  affected  by  contemplation  of  his 
own  good  resolutions.  He  appeared  to  himself  in  a  really 
pathetic  light.  He  would  like  to  have  told  Mary  Cathcart  all 
about  it  and  have  claimed  her  symi)athy  and  admiration.  But 
then,  she  was  just  precisely  the  person  he  could  not  tell,  until 
the  said  resolutions  had,  in  a  degree  at  all  events,  passed  into 
accomplished  fact !  For — as  not  infrecjuently  happens — it  was 
not  so  much  a  case  of  being  off  with  the  old  love  before  being 
on  with  the  new,  as  of  being  off  with  the  intermediate  loves,  before 
being  on  with  the  old  one  again.  To  announce  his  estimable 
future,  was,  by  implication  at  all  events,  to  confess  a  not  wholly 
estimable  past.  And  so  Roger  Ormiston,  sitting  that  night  at 
dinner  beside  the  object  of  his  best  and  most  honest  affections, 
proved  but  poor  company;  and  roused  himself,  not  without 
effort,  to  say  to  his  sister-in-law : — 

"  It's  about  time  to  perform  the  ceremony  of  the  evening, 
isn't  it,  Charlotte,  and  drink  that  small  boy's  health  ?  " 

"  By  all  manner  of  means.  I'm  all  for  the  observance  of 
ancient  forms  and  ceremonies.  You  can  never  be  sure  how 
much  mayn't  lie  at  the  bottom  of  them,  and  it's  best  to  be  on 
the  safe  side  of  the  unseen  powers.  You'll  agree  to  that  now, 
Mr.  March,  won't  you?" — She  took  a  grape  skin  from  between 
her  neat  teeth  and  flicked  it  out  on  to  her  plate. — "  So,  for 
myself,"  she  went  on,  "  I  curtsey  nine  times  to  the  new  moon, 
though  the  repeated  genuflexion  is  perniciously  likely  to  give  me 
the  backache ;  touch  my  hat  in  passing  to  the  magpies ;  wish 
when  I  behold  a  piebald ;  and  bless  my  neighbour  devoutly  if 
he  sneezes." 

At  the  commencement  of  this  harangue  she  met  her  brother- 
in-law's  rather  depreciative  scrutiny  with  her  bold  little  stare — 
in  his  present  mood  Ormiston  found  her  vivacity  tedious,  though 
he  was  usually  willing  enough  to  laugh  at  her  extravagancies — 
then  she  whipped  Julius  in  with  a  side  glance,  and  concluded 
with  her  round  eyes  set  on  Dr.  Knott's  rough-hewn  and  weather- 
beaten  countenance. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  disgracefully  superstitious,  Mrs. 
Ormiston,"  the  latter  remarked. 

She  was  a  feather-headed  chatterbox,  he  reflected,  but  her 
chatter  served  to  occupy  the  time.  And  the  doctor  was  by  no 
means  anxious  the  time  should  pass  too  rapidly.  He  felt  slightly 
self-contemptuous ;  but  in  good  truth  he  would  be  glad  to  put 
away  some  few  glasses  of  sound  port  before  administering  the 
aforementioned  facer  to  Captain  Ormiston. 


THE  CLOWN  57 

"  Superstitious  ?  "  she  returned.  "  Well,  I  trust  my  superstition 
is  not  chronic,  but  nicely  intermittent  like  all  the  rest  of  my  many 
virtues.  Charity  begins  at  home,  you  know,  and  I  would  not 
like  to  keep  any  of  the  poor,  dear  creatures  on  guard  too  long 
for  fear  of  tiring  them  out.  But  I  give  every  one  of  them  a  turn, 
Dr.  Knott,  I  assure  you." 

"And  that's  more  than  most  of  us  do,"  he  said,  smiling  rather 
savagely.  "  The  majority  of  my  acquaintance  have  a  handsome 
power  of  self-restraint  in  the  practice  of  virtue." 

"And  I'm  the  happy  exception!  Well,  now,  that's  an  alto- 
gether pretty  speech,"  Mrs.  Ormiston  cried,  laughing.  "  But  to 
return  to  the  matter  in  hand,  to  this  hero  of  a  baby —  I  dote  on 
babies,  Dr.  Knott,  I've  one  of  my  own  of  six  months  old,  and 
she's  a  charming  child  I  assure  you." 

"  I  don't  doubt  that  for  an  instant,  having  the  honour  of 
knowing  her  mother.  Couldn't  be  otherwise  than  charming  if 
she  tried,"  the  doctor  said,  reaching  out  his  hand  again  to  the 
decanter. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  treated  him  to  her  little  stare,  and  then  looked 
round  the  table,  putting  up  one  plump,  bare  arm  as  she  pushed 
in  a  couple  of  hairpins. 

"  Ah  !  but  she's  a  real  jewel  of  a  child,"  she  said  audaciously. 
"She's  the  comfort  of  my  social  existence.  For  she  doesn't 
resemble  me  in  the  least,  and  therefore  my  reputation's  ever- 
lastingly safe,  thanks  to  her.  Why,  before  the  calumniating  thought 
has  had  time  to  arise  in  your  mind,  one  look  in  that  child's 
face  will  dissipate  it,  she's  so  entirely  the  image  of  her  father." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  but  for  the  sobbing  of  the 
gale  and  rattling  of  the  casements.  Then  Captain  Ormiston 
broke  into  a  rather  loud  laugh.  Even  if  they  sail  near  the  wind, 
you  must  stand  by  the  women  of  your  family. 

"Come,  that  will  do,  I  think,  Charlotte,"  he  said.  "You 
won't  beat  that  triumphant  bull  in  a  hurry." 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,  so  she  is.  Even  at  her  present  tender 
age,  she's  the  living  picture  of  your  brother  William." 

"Oh,  poor  William  !  "  Roger  said  hastily. 

He  turned  to  Mary  Cathcart.  The  girl  had  blushed  up  to 
the  roots  of  her  crisp,  black  hair.  She  did  not  clearly  under- 
stand the  other  woman's  speech,  nor  did  she  wish  to  do  so.  She 
was  admirably  pure-minded.  But,  like  all  truly  pure-minded 
persons,  she  carried  a  touchstone  that  made  her  recf)il,  directly 
and  instinctively,  from  that  which  was  of  doubtful  f|iiality.  The 
twinkle  in  Dr.  Knott's  grey  eyes,  as  he  sipped  his  port,  still  more 
the  tone  of  Roger  Ormiston's  laugh,  she  did  understand  some- 


58  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

how.  And  this  last  jarred  upon  her  cruelly.  It  opened  the 
flood-gates  of  doubt  which  Mary — like  so  many  another  woman 
in  respect  of  the  man  she  loves — had  striven  very  valiantly  to 
keep  shut.  All  manner  of  hints  as  to  his  indiscretions,  all 
manner  of  half-told  tales  as  to  his  debts,  his  extravagance,  which 
rumour  had  conveyed  to  her  unwilling  ears,  seemed  suddenly  to 
gather  weight  and  probability,  viewed  in  the  moral  light — so 
to  speak — of  that  laugh.  Great  loves  mature  and  deepen  under 
the  action  of  sorrow  and  the  necessity  to  forgive ;  yet  it  is  a 
shrewdly  bitter  moment,  when  the  heart  of  either  man  or  woman 
first  admits  that  the  god  of  its  idolatry  has,  after  all,  feet  of  but 
very  common  clay.  Her  head  erect,  her  eyes  moist,  Mary 
turned  to  Julius  March  and  asked  him  of  the  welfare  of  a  certain 
labourer's  family  that  had  lately  migrated  from  Newlands  to 
Sandyfield.  But  Ormiston's  voice  broke  in  upon  the  inquiries 
with  a  determination  to  claim  her  attention. 

"Miss  Cathcart,"  he  said,  "forgive  my  interrupting  you.  I 
can  tell  you  more  about  the  Spratleys  than  March  can.  They're 
all  right.  lies  has  taken  the  man  on  as  carter  at  the  home-farm, 
and  given  the  eldest  boy  a  job  with  the  woodmen.  I  told  him 
to  do  what  he  could  for  them  as  you  said  you  were  interested 
in  them.  And  now,  please,  I  want  you  to  drink  my  small 
nephew's  health." 

The  girl  pushed  forward  her  wine  glass  without  speaking, 
and,  as  he  filled  it,  Ormiston  added  in  a  lower  tone  : — 

"  He,  at  all  events,  unlike  some  of  his  relations,  is  guiltless 
of  foolish  words  or  foolish  actions.  I  don't  pretend  to  share 
Charlotte's  superstitions,  but  some  people's  good  wishes  are 
very  well  worth  having." 

Unwillingly  Mary  Cathcart  raised  her  eyes.  Her  head  was 
still  carried  a  little  high  and  her  cheeks  were  still  glowing.  Her 
god  might  not  be  of  pure  gold  throughout — such  gods  rarely  are, 
unfortunately — yet  she  was  aware  she  still  found  him  a  very 
worshipful  kind  of  deity. 

"Very  well  worth  having,"  he  repeated.  "And  so  I  should 
like  that  poor,  little  chap  to  have  your  good  wishes.  Miss  Cathcart. 
Wish  him  all  manner  of  nice  things,  for  his  mother's  sake  as  well 
as  his  own.  There's  been  a  pretty  bad  run  of  luck  here  lately, 
and  it's  time  it  changed.  Wish  him  better  fortune  than  his  fore- 
fathers. I'm  not  superstitious,  as  I  say,  but  Richard  Calmady's 
death  scared  one  a  little.  Five  minutes  beforehand  it  seemed 
so  utterly  improbable.  And  then  one  began  to  wonder  if  there 
could  be  any  truth  in  the  old  legend.  And  that  was  ugly,  you 
know." 


THE  CLOWN  59 

Dr.  Knott  glanced  at  the  speaker  sharply.  — "  Oh !  that 
occurred  to  you,  did  it?"  he  said. 

"Bless  me!  why,  it  occurred  to  everybody!"  Ormiston 
answered  impatiently.  "  Some  idiot  raked  the  story  up,  and  it 
was  canvassed  from  one  end  of  the  county  to  the  other  last 
autumn  till  it  made  me  fairly  sick." 

"Poor  boy!"  cried  Mrs.  Ormiston.  "And  what  is  this 
wonderful  story  that  so  nauseates  him,  Dr.  Knott  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you,"  the  doctor  answered  slowly. 
A  nervous  movement  on  the  part  of  Julius  March  had  attracted 
his  attention.  "  I  have  never  managed  to  get  hold  of  the  story 
as  a  whole,  but  I  should  like  to  do  so  uncommonly." 

Juhus  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  groped  hurriedly  for 
the  dinner-napkin  which  had  slipped  to  the  ground  from  his 
knees.  The  subject  of  the  conversation  agitated  him.  The  un- 
tidy, little  chap-books,  tied  together  with  the  tag  of  rusty  ribbon, 
had  lain  undisturbed  in  the  drawer  of  his  library  table  ever  since 
the — to  him — very  memorable  evening,  when,  kneeling  before 
the  image  of  the  stricken  Mother  and  the  dead  Christ,  he  had 
found  the  man's  heart  under  the  priest's  cassock  and  awakened 
to  newness  of  life.  Much  had  happened  since  then  ;  and  Julius 
had  ranged  himself,  accepting,  open-eyed,  the  sorrows  and 
alleviations  of  the  fate  he  had  created  for  himself.  But  to-night 
he  was  tired.  The  mental  and  emotional  strain  of  the  last  few 
days  had  been  considerable.  Moreover,  John  Knott's  presence 
always  affected  him.  The  two  men  stood,  indeed,  at  opposing 
poles  of  thought — the  one  spiritual  and  ideal,  the  other  material 
and  realistic.  And,  though  he  struggled  against  the  influence, 
the  doctor's  rather  brutal  common  sense  and  large  knowledge  of 
physical  causes,  gained  a  painful  ascendency  over  his  mind  at 
close  quarters.  Knott,  it  must  be  owned,  was  slightly  merciless 
to  his  clerical  acquaintances.  He  loved  to  bait  them,  to  impale 
them  on  the  horns  of  some  moral  or  theological  dilemma.  And 
it  was  partly  with  this  purpose  of  harrying  and  worrying  that 
he  continued  now  : — 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Ormiston,  I  should  like  to  hear  the  story  just  as 
much  as  you  would.  And — it  strikes  me,  if  he  pleased,  Mr. 
March  could  tell  it  to  us.     .Sujjpose  you  ask  him  to ! " 

Promptly  the  young  lady  fell  upon  Julius,  regardless  of 
Ormiston's  hardly  concealed  displeasurL-. 

"Oh  !  you  bad  man,  what  are  you  doing,"  she  cried,  "trying 
to  conceal  thrilling  family  legends  from  the  nearest  relatives? 
Tell  us  all  about  it,  if  ytni  know,  as  Dr.  Knott  declares  you  do. 
I  dote  on  terrifying  stories — don't  you,  Mary? — that  send  the 


6o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

cold  shivers  all  down  my  back.  And  if  they  deal  with  the 
history  of  my  nearest  and  dearest,  why,  there's  an  added  charm 
to  them.  Now,  Mr.  March,  we're  all  attention.  Stand  and 
dehver,  and  make  it  all  just  as  bad  as  you  can." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  an  effective  improvisatore"  he  replied. 
"  And  the  subject,  if  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  seerns  to  me 
too  intimate  for  mirth.  A  curse  is  supposed  to  rest  on  this  place. 
The  owners  of  Brockhurst  die  young  and  by  violent  means." 

"  We  know  that  already,  and  look  to  you  to  tell  us  something 
more,  Mr.  March,"  Dr.  Knott  said  dryly. 

Julius  was  slightly  nettled  at  the  elder  man's  tone  and  manner. 
He  answered  with  an  accentuation  of  his  usual  refinement  of 
enunciation  and  suavity  of  manner. 

"There  is  a  term  to  the  curse — a  saviour  who,  according  to 
the  old  prediction,  has  the  power,  should  he  also  have  the  will, 
to  remove  it  altogether." 

"  Oh,  really,  is  that  so  ?     And  when  does  this  saviour  put  in 
an  appearance  ?  "  the  doctor  asked  again. 
"That  is  not  revealed." 

Julius  would  very  gladly  have  said  nothing  further.  But  Dr. 
Knott's  expression  was  curiously  intent  and  compelling  as  he 
sat  fingering  the  stem  of  his  wine  glass.  All  the  ideality  of 
Julius's  nature  rose  in  revolt  against  the  half-sneering  rationalism 
he  seemed  to  read  in  that  expression.  Mrs.  Ormiston,  who  had 
an  hereditary  racial  appreciation  of  anything  approaching  a  fight, 
turned  her  round  eyes  first  on  one  speaker  and  then  on  the  other 
provokingly,  inciting  them  to  more  declared  hostilities,  while  she 
bit  her  lips  in  the  effort  to  avoid  spoiling  sport  by  untimely 
laughter  or  speech. 

"  But  unhappily,"  Julius  proceeded,  yielding  under  protest  to 
these  opposing  forces,  "the  saviour  comes  in  so  questionable  a 
shape,  that  I  fear,  whenever  the  appointed  time  may  be,  his 
appearance  will  only  be  welcomed  by  the  discerning  few." 

"That's  a  pity,"  Dr.  Knott  said.  He  paused  a  minute, 
passed  his  hand  across  his  mouth.— "  Still,  if  we  are  to  believe 
the  Bible,  and  other  so-called  sacred  histories,  it's  been  the  way 
of  saviours  from  the  beginning  to  try  the  faith  of  ordinary  mortals 
by  presenting  themselves  under  rather  queer  disguises." — He 
paused  again,  drawing  in  his  wide  hps,  moistening  them  with 
his  tongue.  "  But  since  you  evidently  know  all  about  it,  Mr. 
March,  may  I  make  bold  to  inquire  in  what  special  form  of 
fancy  dress  the  saviour  in  question  is  reported  as  likely  to  present 
himself?" 

"  He  comes  as  a  child  of  the  house,"  Julius  answered,  with 


THE  CLOWN  6i 

dignity.  "  A  child  who  in  person — if  I  understand  the  wording 
of  the  prophecy  aright — is  half  angel,  half  monster." 

John  Knott  opened  his  mouth  as  though  to  give  passage  to 
some  very  forcible  exclamation.  Thought  better  of  it  and 
brought  his  jaws  together  with  a  kind  of  grind.  His  heavy 
figure  seemed  to  hunch  itself  up  as  in  the  recoil  from  a 
blow. 

"  Curious,"  he  said  quietly.  Yet  Julius,  looking  at  him, 
could  have  fancied  that  his  weather-beaten  face  went  a  trifle 
pale. 

But  Mrs.  Ormiston,  in  the  interests  of  a  possible  fight,  had 
contained  herself  just  as  long  as  was  possible.  Now  she  clapped 
her  hands,  and  broke  into  a  little  scream  of  laughter. 

"That's  just  the  most  magnificently  romantic  thing  I  ever 
heard  ! "  she  cried.  "  Come  now,  this  requires  further  investiga- 
tion. What's  our  baby  like.  Dr.  Knott?  I've  seen  nothing  but 
an  indistinguishable  mass  of  shawls  and  flannels.  Have  we,  by 
chance,  got  an  angelic  monstrosity  upstairs  without  being  aware 
of  it?" 

"  Charlotte  !  "  Roger  Ormiston  called  out  sternly.  The  young 
man  looked  positively  dangerous.  "This  conversation  has  gone 
(juite  far  enough.  I  agree  with  March,  it  may  all  be  stuff  and 
nonsense,  not  worth  a  second  thought,  still  it  isn't  a  thing  to 
joke  about." 

"Very  well,  dear  boy,  be  soothed  then,"  she  returned, 
making  a  little  grimace  and  putting  her  head  on  one  side 
cocjuettishly.  "  I'll  be  as  solemn  as  nine  owls.  But  you  must 
excuse  a  momentary  excitement.  It's  all  news  to  me,  you  know. 
I'd  no  notion  Katherine  had  married  into  such  a  remarkable 
family,  I'm  bound  to  learn  a  little  more.  Do  you  believe  it's 
possible  at  all,  Dr.  Knott,  now  tell  me?" 

"The  fulfilment  of  prophecy  is  rather  a  wide  and  burning 
question  to  embark  on,"  he  said.  "With  Captain  Oriuiston's 
leave,  I  think  we'd  better  go  back  to  the  point  we  started  from 
and  drink  the  little  gentleman's  health.  I  have  my  patient  to 
see  again,  and  it  is  getting  rather  late." 

The  lady  addressed,  laughed,  held  up  her  glass,  and  stared 
round  the  table  with  a  fine  air  of  bravado,  looking  remarkably 
pretty. 

"  Fire  away,  Roger,  dear  fellow,"  she  said.  "  We're  loaded, 
and  ready." 

Thus  admonished,  Ormiston  raised  his  glass  too.  But  his 
temper  was  not  of  the  sweetest,  just  then,  he  spoke  forcedly. 

"  Here's  to  the  boy,"  he  said  ;  "  good  luck,  and  good  health, 


62  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and,"  he  added  hastily,  "please  God  he'll  be  a  comfort  to  his 
mother." 

"  Amen,"  Julius  said  softly. 

Dr.  Knott  contemplated  the  contents  of  his  glass,  for  a 
moment,  whether  critically  or  absently  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  decide.  But  all  the  harshness  had  gone  out  of  his 
face,  and  his  loose  lips  worked  into  a  smile  pathetic  in  quality. 

"To  the  baby. — And  I  venture  to  add  a  clause  to  your  in- 
vocation of  that  heartless  jade.  Dame  Fortune.  May  he  never 
lack  good  courage  and  good  friends.     He  will  need  both." 

Julius  March  set  down  his  wine  untasted.  He  had  received 
a  very  disagreeable  impression. 

"  Come,  come,  it  appears  to  me,  we  are  paying  these  honours 
in  a  most  lugubrious  spirit,"  Mrs.  Ormiston  broke  in.  "  I  wish 
the  baby  a  long  life  and  a  merry  one,  in  defiance  of  all  prophecies 
and  traditions  belonging  to  his  paternal  ancestry.  Go  on,  Mr. 
March,  you're  shamefully  neglecting  your  duty.     No  heel  taps." 

She  threw  back  her  head,  showing  the  whole  of  her  white 
throat,  drained  her  glass  and  then  flung  it  over  her  shoulder. 
It  fell  on  the  black,  polished  boards,  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
carpet,  shivered  into  a  hundred  pieces,  that  lay  glittering,  like 
scattered  diamonds  in  the  lamplight.  For  the  day  had  died 
altogether.  Fleets  of  dark,  straggling  cloud  chased  each  other 
across  spaces  of  pallid  sky,  against  the  earthward  edge  of  which 
dusky  tree-tops  strained  and  writhed  in  the  force  of  the  tearing 
gale. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  rose,  laughing,  from  her  place  at  table. 

"That's  the  correct  form,"  she  said,  "it  ensures  the  fulfilment 
of  the  wish.  You  ought  all  to  have  cast  away  your  glasses 
regardless  of  expense.  Come,  Mary,  we  will  remove  ourselves. 
Mind  and  bid  me  good-bye  before  you  go.  Dr.  Knott,  and  report 
on  Lady  Calmady.  It's  probably  the  last  time  you'll  have  the 
felicity  of  seeing  me.     I'm  off  at  cock-crow  to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ENTER    A    CHILD    OF    PROMISE 

AFTER  closing  the  door  behind  the  two  ladies,  Ormiston 
paused  by  the  near  window  and  gazed  out  into  the  night. 
The  dinner  had  been,  in  his  opinion,  far  from  a  success.  He 
feared  his  relation  to  Mary  Cathcart  had  retrograded  rather  than 


THE  CLOWN  63 

progressed.  He  wished  his  sister-in-law  would  be  more  correct 
in  speech  and  behaviour.  Then  he  held  the  conversation  had 
been  in  bad  taste.  The  doctor  should  have  abstained  from 
pressing  Julius  with  questions.  He  assured  himself,  again,  that 
the  story  was  not  worth  a  moment's  serious  consideration ;  yet 
he  resented  its  discussion.  Such  discussion  seemed  to  him  to 
tread  hard  on  the  heels  of  impertinence  to  his  sister,  to  her 
husband's  memory,  and  to  this  boy,  born  to  so  excellent  a 
position  and  so  great  wealth.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that,  like 
a  fool,  he  had  started  the  subject  himself ! 

"The  wind's  rising,"  he  remarked  at  last.  "You'll  have  a 
rough  drive  home,  Knott." 

"  It  won't  be  the  first  one.  And  my  beauty's  of  the  kind 
which  takes  a  lot  of  spoiling." 

The  answer  did  not  please  the  young  man.  He  sauntered 
across  the  room  and  dropped  into  his  chair,  with  a  slightly 
insolent  demeanour. 

"All  the  same,  don't  let  me  detain  you,"  he  said,  "if  you 
prefer  seeing  Lady  Calmady  at  once  and  getting  off." 

"  You  don't  detain  me,"  Dr.  Knott  answered.  "  I'm  afraid 
it's  just  the  other  way  about  and  that  I  must  detain  you, 
Captain  Ormiston,  and  that  on  rather  unpleasant  business." 

Julius  March  had  risen  to  his  feet.  "  You — you  have  no 
fresh  cause  for  anxiety  about  Lady  Calmady  ?  "  he  said  hurriedly. 

The  doctor  glanced  up  at  the  tall,  spare,  black  figure  and 
dark,  sensitive  face  with  a  half-sneering,  half-pitying  smile. 

"  Oh  no,  no  ! "  he  replied  ;  "  Lady  Calmady's  going  on 
sijlendidly.  And  it  is  to  guard,  just  as  far  as  we  can,  against 
cause  for  anxiety  later,  that  I  want  to  speak  to  Captain  Ormiston 
now.  We've  got  to  be  prepared  for  certain  contingencies. 
Don't  you  go,  Mr.  March.  You  may  as  well  hear  what  I've  to 
say.  It  will  interest  you  particularly,  I  fancy,  after  one  or  two 
things  you  have  told  us  to-night !  " 

"Sit  down,  Julius,  please." — Ormiston  would  have  liked  to 
maintain  that  same  insolence  of  demeanour,  but  it  gave  before 
an  apprehension  of  serious  issues.  He  looked  hard  at  the  doctor, 
cudgelling  his  brains  as  to  what  the  latter's  enigmatic  speech 
might  mean — divined,  put  the  idea  away  as  inadmissible,  returned 
to  it,  then  said  angrily: — "'I'hcre's  nothing  wrong  with  the 
child,  of  course?" 

Dr.  Knott  turned  his  chair  sideways  to  the  table  and  shaded 
his  face  with  his  thick,  sejuare  hand. 

"  Well,  that  depends  on  what  you  call  wrong,"  he  slowly  replied. 

"  It's  not  ill  ?  "  Ormiston  said. 


64  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  The  baby's  as  well  as  you  or  I — better,  in  fact,  than  I  am, 
for  I  am  confoundedly  touched  up  with  gout.  Bear  that  in  mind, 
Captain  Ormiston— that  the  child  is  well,  I  mean,  not  that  I  am 
gouty.  I  want  you  to  definitely  remember  that,  you  and  Mr. 
March." 

"Well,  then,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  Ormiston  asked 
sharply.  "You  don't  mean  to  imply  it  is  injured  in  any  way, 
deformed  ?  " 

Dr.  Knott  let  his  hand  drop  on  the  table.  He  nodded  liis 
head.  Ormiston  perceived,  and  it  moved  him  strangely,  that 
the  doctor's  eyes  were  wet. 

"  Not  deformed,"  he  answered.  "  Technically  you  can  hardly 
call  it  that,  but  maimed." 

"Badly?" 

"  Well,  that's  a  matter  of  opinion.  You  or  I  should  think  it 
bad  enough,  I  fancy,  if  we  found  ourselves  in  the  same  boat." 
He  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair. — "  You  had  better  under- 
stand it  quite  clearly,"  he  continued,  "  at  least  as  clearly  as  I  can 
put  it  to  you.  There  comes  a  point  where  I  cannot  explain  the 
facts  but  only  state  them.  You  have  heard  of  spontaneous 
amputation  ?  " 

Across  Ormiston's  mind  came  the  remembrance  of  a  litter  of 
puppies  he  had  seen  in  the  sanctum  of  the  veterinary  surgeon  of 
his  regiment.     A  lump  rose  in  his  throat. 

"Yes,  go  on,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  a  thing  that  does  not  happen  once  in  most  men's 
experience.  I  have  only  seen  one  case  before  in  all  my  practice 
and  that  was  nothing  very  serious.  This  is  an  extraordinary 
example.  I  need  not  remind  you  of  Sir  Richard  Calmady's 
accident  and  the  subsequent  operation  ?  " 

"Of  course  not — go  on,"  Ormiston  repeated. 

"  In  both  cases  the  leg  is  gone  from  here,"  the  doctor  con- 
tinued, laying  the  edge  of  his  palm  across  the  thigh  immediately 
above  the  knee.  "The  foot  is  there — that  is  the  amazing  part 
of  it — and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  well  formed  and  of  the  normal 
size,  but  so  embedded  in  the  stump  that  I  cannot  discover 
whether  the  ankle-joint  and  bones  of  the  lower  leg  exist  in  a  con- 
tracted form  or  not." 

Ormiston  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  port.  His  hand  shook 
so  that  the  lip  of  the  decanter  chattered  against  the  lip  of  the 
glass.  He  gulped  down  the  wine  and,  getting  up,  walked  the 
length  of  the  room  and  back  again. 

"  God  in  heaven,"  he  murmured,  "  how  horrible  !  Poor  Kitty, 
how  utterly  horrible  ! — Poor  Kitty." 


THE  CLOWN  65 

For  the  baby,  in  his  own  fine  completeness,  he  had  as  yet  no 
feeling  but  one  of  repulsion. 

"Can  nothing  be  done,  Knott?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"Obviously  nothing." 

"And  it  wilUive?" 

"  Oh  !  bless  you,  yes  !  I  It'll  live  fast  enough  if  I  know  a  healthy 
infant  when  I  see  one.  And  I  ought  to  know  'em  by  now.  I've 
brought  them  into  the  world  by  dozens  for  my  sins." 

"  Will  it  be  able  to  walk  ?  " 

"  Umph  —  well  —  shuffle,"  the  doctor  answered,  smiling 
savagely  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

The  young  man  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  rested 
his  head  on  his  hands.  All  this  shocked  him  inexpressibly — 
shocked  him  almost  to  the  point  of  physical  illness.  Strong  as 
he  was  he  could  have  fainted,  just  then,  had  he  yielded  by  ever 
so  little.  And  this  was  the  boy  whom  they  had  so  longed  for 
then  !  The  child  on  whom  they  had  set  such  fond  hopes,  who 
was  to  be  the  pride  of  his  young  mother,  and  restore  the  so  rudely 
shaken  balance  of  her  life  !  This  was  the  boy  who  should  go  to 
Eton,  and  into  some  crack  regiment,  who  should  ride  straight, 
who  was  heir  to  great  possessions  ! 

"  The  saviour  has  come,  you  see,  Mr.  March,  in  as  thorough- 
paced a  disguise  as  ever  saviour  did  yet,"  John  Knott  said 
cynically. 

"  He  had  better  never  have  come  at  all ! "  Ormiston  put  in 
fiercely,  from  behind  his  hands. 

"  Yes — very  likely — I  believe  I  agree,"  the  doctor  answered. 
"Only  it  remains  that  he  has  come,  is  feeding,  growing,  stretch- 
ing, and  bellowing  too,  like  a  young  bull-calf,  when  anything  doesn't 
suit  him.  He  is  here,  very  much  here,  I  tell  you.  And  so  we 
have  just  got  to  consider  how  to  make  the  best  of  him,  both  for 
his  own  sake  and  for  Lady  Calmady's.  And  you  must  under- 
stand he  is  a  splendid,  little  animal,  clean  skinned  and  strong,  as 
you  would  expect,  being  the  child  of  two  such  fine  young  people. 
He  is  beautiful, — I  am  old  fashioned  enough,  perhaps  scientific 
enough,  lo  put  a  good  deal  of  faith  in  that  notion, — beautiful  as  a 
child  only  can  be  who  is  born  of  the  passion  of  true  lovers." 

He  paused,  looking  somewhat  mockingly  at  Julius. 

"Yes,  love  is  an  incalculably  great,  natural  force,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  It  comes  uncommonly  near  working  miracles  at  times, 
unconscious  and  rather  deplorable  miracles.  In  this  case  it  has 
worked  strangely  against  itself — at  once  for  irreparable  injury 
and  for  perfection.  For  the  child  is  perfect,  is  superb,  but  for 
the  one  thing." 

5 


66  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Does  my  sister  know  ?  "  Ormiston  asked  hoarsely. 

"  Not  yet ;  and,  as  long  as  we  can  keep  the  truth  from  her, 
she  had  better  not  know.  We  must  get  her  a  little  stronger,  if 
we  can,  first.  That  woman,  Mrs.  Denny,  is  worth  her  weight 
in  gold,  and  her  weight's  not  inconsiderable.  She  has  her 
wits  about  her,  and  has  contrived  to  meet  all  difficulties  so 
far." 

Ormiston  sat  in  the  same  dejected  attitude. 

"  But  my  sister  is  bound  to  know  before  long." 

"  Of  course.  When  she  is  a  bit  better  she'll  want  to  have  the 
baby  to  play  with,  dress  and  undress  it  and  see  what  the  queer 
little  being  is  made  of.  It's  a  way  young  mothers  have,  and  a 
very  pretty  way  too.  If  we  keep  the  child  from  her  she  will  grow 
suspicious,  and  take  means  to  find  out  for  herself,  and  that  won't 
do.  It  must  not  be.  I  won't  be  responsible  for  the  conse- 
quences. So  as  soon  as  she  asks  a  definite  question,  she  must 
have  a  definite  answer." 

The  young  man  looked  up  quickly. 

"And  who  is  to  give  the  answer?"  he  said. 

"  Well,  it  rests  chiefly  with  you  to  decide  that.  Clearly  she 
ou^bt  not  to  hear  this  thing  from  a  servant.  It  is  too  serious. 
It  needs  to  be  well  told — the  whole  kept  at  a  high  level,  if  you 
understand  me.  Give  Lady  Calmady  a  great  part  and  she  will 
play  it  nobly.  Let  this  come  upon  her  from  a  mean,  wet-nurse, 
hospital-ward  sort  of  level,  and  it  may  break  her.  What  we  have 
to  do  is  to  keep  up  her  pluck.  Remember  we  are  only  at  the 
beginning  of  this  business  yet.  In  all  probability  there  are 
many  years  ahead.  Therefore  this  announcement  must  come  to 
Lady  Calmady  from  an  educated  person,  from  an  equal,  from 
somebody  who  can  see  all  round  it.  Mrs.  Ormiston  tells  me 
she  leaves  here  to-morrow  morning  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Ormiston  is  out  of  the  question  anyhow,"  Roger 
exclaimed  rather  bitterly. 

Here  Julius  March,  who  had  so  far  been  silent,  spoke,  and, 
in  speaking,  showed  what  manner  of  spirit  he  was  of.  The 
doctor  agitated  him,  treated  him,  moreover,  with  scant  courtesy. 
But  Julius  put  this  aside.  He  could  afford  to  forget  himself  in 
his  desire  for  any  possible  mitigation  of  the  blow  which  must 
fall  on  Katherine  Calmady.  And,  listening  to  his  talk,  he  had, 
in  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  gained  conviction  not  only  of 
this  man's  ability,  but  of  his  humanity,  of  his  possession  of  the 
peculiar  gentleness  which  so  often,  mercifully,  goes  along  with 
unusual  strength.  As  the  coarse  -  looking  hand  could  soothe, 
touching  delicately,  so  the  hard  intellect  and  rough  tongue  could, 


THE  CLOWN  6y 

he  believed,  modulate  themselves  to  very  consoling  and  inspiring 
tenderness  of  thought  and  speech. 

"We  have  you,  Dr.  Knott,"  he  said.  "No  one,  I  think, 
could  better  break  this  terrible  sorrow  to  Lady  Calmady,  than 
yourself." 

"Thank  you — you  are  generous,  Mr.  March,"  the  other 
answered  cordially;  adding  to  himself: — "Got  to  revise  my 
opinion  of  the  black  coat.  Didn't  quite  deserve  that  after  the 
way  you've  badgered  him,  eh,  John  Knott  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders  a  little  shamefacedly. 
"Of  course,  I'd  do  my  best,"  he  continued.  "But  you  see 
ten  to  one  I  shan't  be  here  at  the  moment.  As  it  is,  I  have 
neglected  lingering  sicknesses  and  sudden  deaths,  hysterical  girls, 
croupy  children,  broken  legs,  and  all  the  other  pretty  little  amuse- 
ments of  a  rather  large  practice,  waiting  for  me.  Suppose  I  happen 
to  be  twenty  miles  away  on  the  far  side  of  Westchurch,  or  seeing 
after  some  of  Lady  Fallowfeild's  numerous  progeny  engaged  in 
teething  or  measles?  Lady  Calmady  might  be  kept  waiting, 
and  we  cannot  afford  to  have  her  kept  waiting  in  this  crisis." 

"  I  wish   to  God   my  aunt,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin,  was    here ! " 
Ormiston  exclaimed,      "  But  she  is  not,  and  won't  be,  alas  ! " 
"Well,  then,  who  remains?" 

As  the  doctor  spoke  he  pressed  his  fingers  against  the  edge 
of  the  table,  leaned  forward,  and  looked  keenly  at  Ormiston. 
He  was  extremely  ugly  just  then,  ugly  as  the  weather-worn 
gargoyle  on  some  mediaeval  church  tower,  but  his  eyes  were 
curiously  compelling. 

"  Good  heavens  !  you  don't  mean  that  I've  got  to  tell  her  ?  " 
Ormiston  cried. 

He  rose  hurriedly,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
walked  a  little  unsteadily  across  to  the  window,  crunching  the 
shining  pieces  of  Mrs.  Ormiston's  sacrificial  wine  glass  under 
foot.  Outside  the  night  was  very  wild.  In  the  colourless  sky 
stars  reeled  among  the  fleets  of  racing  cloud.  The  wind  hissed 
up  the  grass  slopes  and  shouted  among  the  great  trees  crowning 
the  ridge  of  the  hill.  The  prospect  was  not  calculated  to 
encourage.  Ormiston  turned  his  back  on  it.  l^ut  hardly  more 
encouraging  was  the  sombre,  grey  -  blue  -  walled  room.  The 
vision  of  all  that  often  returned  to  him  afterwards  in  very  different 
scenes — the  tall  lamps,  the  two  men,  so  strangely  dissimilar  in 
appearance  and  temf)eramcnt,  sitting  on  either  side  the  dinner- 
table  with  its  fine  linen  and  silver,  wines  and  fruits,  waiting 
silently  for  him  to  sf)eak. 

"I  can't  tell  her,"  he  said,  "I  can't.     Damn  it  all,  I  tell  you, 


68  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Knott,  I  daren't.  Think  what  it  will  be  to  her  !  Think  of  being 
told  that  about  your  own  child ! " — Ormiston  lost  control  of  himself. 
He  spoke  violently.  "  I'm  so  awfully  fond  of  her  and  proud  of 
her,"  he  went  on.  "She's  behaved  so  splendidly  ever  since 
Richard's  death,  laid  hold  of  all  the  business,  never  spared  herself, 
been  so  able  and  so  just.  And  now  the  baby  coming,  and  being 
a  boy,  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  let  up,  a  reward  to  her  for  all  her 
goodness.  To  tell  her  this  horrible  thing  will  be  like  doing  her 
some  hideous  wrong.  If  her  heart  has  to  be  broken,  in  common 
charity  don't  ask  me  to  break  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  He  came  back  to  the  table  and  stood 
behind  Julius  March's  chair. 

"  It's  asking  me  to  be  hangman  to  my  own  sister,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  is  a  confoundedly  nasty  piece  of  work. 
And  it's  rough  on  you,  very  rough.  Only,  you  see,  this 
hanging  has  to  be  put  through  —  there's  the  nuisance.  And 
it  is  just  a  question  whether  your  hand  won't  be  the  lightest 
after  all." 

Again  silence  obtained,  but  for  the  rush  and  sob  of  the  gale 
against  the  great  house. 

"What  do  you  say,  Julius?"  Ormiston  demanded  at  last. 

"  I  suppose  our  only  thought  is  for  Katherine — for  Lady 
Calmady?"  he  said.  "And  in  that  case  I  agree  with  Dr. 
Knott." 

Roger  took  another  turn  to  the  window,  stood  there  awhile 
struggling  with  his  natural  desire  to  escape  from  so  painful  an 
embassy. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  are  not  here,  Knott,  I  undertake  to  tell 
her,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Please  God,  she  mayn't  turn  against  me 
altogether  for  bringing  her  such  news.  I'll  be  on  hand  for  the 
next  few  days,  and — you  must  explain  to  Denny  that  I  am  to  be 
sent  for  whenever  I  am  wanted.  That's  all — I  suppose  we  may 
as  well  go  now,  mayn't  we  ?  " 

Julius  knelt  at  the  faldstool,  without  the  altar  rails  of  the 
chapel,  till  the  light  showed  faintly  through  the  grisaille  of  the 
stained-glass  windows  and  outlined  the  spires  and  carven 
canopies  of  the  stalls.  At  first  his  prayers  were  definite,  petitions 
for  mercy  and  grace  to  be  outpoured  on  the  fair,  young  mother 
and  her,  seemingly,  so  cruelly  afflicted  child ;  on  himself,  too, 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  stay  here,  and  serve  her  through 
the  difficult  future.  If  she  had  been  sacred  before,  Katherine 
was  doubly  sacred  to  him  now.  He  bowed  himself,  in 
reverential   awe,  before   the  thought  of  her  martyrdom.      How 


THE  CLOWN  69 

would  her  proud  and  naturally  joyous  spirit  bear  the  bitter 
pains  of  it?  Would  it  make,  eventually,  for  evil  or  for  good? 
And  then — the  ascetic  within  him  asserting  itself,  notwithstanding 
the  widening  of  outlook  produced  by  the  awakening  of  his  heart 
— he  was  overtaken  by  a  great  horror  of  that  which  we  call 
matter ;  by  a  revolt  against  the  body,  and  those  torments  and 
shames,  mental,  moral,  and  physical,  which  the  body  brings 
along  with  it.  Surely  the  dualists  were  right?  It  was  unre- 
generate,  a  thing,  if  made  by  God,  yet  wholly  fallen  away  from 
grace  and  given  over  to  evil,  this  fleshly  envelope  wherein  the 
human  soul  is  seated,  and  which,  even  in  the  womb,  may  be 
infected  by  disease  or  rendered  hideous  by  mutilation?  Then, 
as  the  languor  of  his  long  vigil  overcame  him,  he  passed  into 
an  ecstatic  contemplation  of  the  state  of  that  same  soul  after 
death,  clothed  with  a  garment  of  incorruptible  and  enduring 
beauty,  dwelling  in  clear,  luminous  spaces,  worshipping  among 
the  ranks  of  the  redeemed,  beholding  its  Lord  God  face 
to  face. 

John  Knott,  meanwhile,  after  driving  home  beneath  the 
reeling  stars,  through  the  roar  of  the  forest  and  shriek  of  the 
wind  across  the  open  moors,  found  an  urgent  summons  awaiting 
him.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  that  night,  not  in  dreams  of 
paradise  and  of  spirits  redeemed  from  the  thraldom  of  the  flesh, 
but  in  increasing  the  population  of  this  astonishing  planet,  by 
assisting  to  deliver  a  scrofulous,  half-witted,  shrieking  servant- 
girl  of  twins — illegitimate — in  the  fusty  atmosphere  of  a  cottage 
garret,  right  up  under  the  rat-eaten  thatch. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN    WHICH    KATHERIXK    C'ALMADV    LOOKS    ON    HKR    SON 

MORE  than  a  week  elapsed  before  Ormiston  was  called 
upon  to  redeem  his  promise.  ]""or  Lady  Calmady's  con- 
valescence was  slow.  An  apathy  held  her,  which  was  tranquillis- 
ing  rather  than  tedious.  She  was  glad  to  lie  still  and  rest.  She 
found  it  very  soothing  to  be  shut  away  from  the  many  obligations 
of  active  life  for  a  while;  to  watch  the  sunlight,  on  fair  days, 
shift  from  east  by  south  to  west,  across  the  warm  fragrant  room  ; 
to  see  the  changing  clouds  in  the  delicate,  spring  sky,  and  the 
slow-dying  crimson  and  violt-t  of  the  sunset ;  to  hear  the  sudden 
hurry  of  falling  rain,  the  subdued  voices  of  the  women  in  the 


70  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

adjoining  nursery,  and,  sometimes,  the  lusty  protestations  of  her 
baby  when — as  John  Knott  had  put  it — "things  didn't  suit  him." 
She  felt  a  little  jealous  of  the  comely,  young  wet-nurse,  a  little 
desirous  to  be  more  intimately  acquainted  with  this  small,  new 
Richard  Calmady,  on  whom  all  her  hopes  for  the  future  were  set. 
But,  immediately,  she  was  very  submissive  to  the  restrictions  laid 
by  Denny  and  the  doctor  upon  her  intercourse  with  the  child. 
She  only  stood  on  the  threshold  of  motherhood  as  yet.  While 
the  inevitable  exhaustion,  following  on  the  excitement  of  her 
spring  and  summer  of  joy,  her  autumn  of  bitter  sorrow,  and  her 
winter  of  hard  work,  asserted  itself  now  that  she  had  time  and 
opportunity  for  rest. 

The  hangings  and  coverlet  of  the  great,  ebony,  half-tester  bed 
were  lined  with  rose  silk,  and  worked,  with  many  coloured 
worsteds  on  a  white  ground,  in  the  elaborate  Persian  pattern  so 
popular  among  industrious  ladies  of  leisure  in  the  reign  of  good 
Queen  Anne.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  the  parable, 
wrought  out  with  such  patience  of  innumerable  stitches,  was 
closely  comprehensible  or  sympathetic  to  the  said  ladies  ;  since  a 
particularly  wide  interval,  both  of  philosophy  and  practice,  would 
seem  to  divide  the  temper  of  the  early  eighteenth  century  from 
that  of  the  mystic  East.  Still  the  parable  was  there,  plain  to 
whoso  could  read  it ;  and  not— perhaps  rather  pathetically — with- 
out its  modern  application. 

The  Powers  of  Evil,  in  the  form  of  a  Leopard,  pursue  the 
soul  of  man,  symbolised  by  a  Hart,  through  the  Forest  of  This 
Life.  In  the  midst  of  that  same  forest  stands  an  airy,  domed 
pavilion,  in  which — if  so  be  it  have  strength  and  fleetness  to 
reach  it — the  panting,  hunted  creature  may,  for  a  time,  find  secu- 
rity and  repose.  Above  this  resting-place  the  trees  of  the  forest 
interlace  their  spreading  branches,  loaded  with  amazing  leaves 
and  fruit ;  while  companies  of  rainbow-hued  birds,  standing  very 
upright  upon  nothing  in  particular,  entertain  themselves  by 
holding  singularly  indigestible  looking  cherries  and  mulberries  in 
their  yellow  beaks. 

And  so,  Katherine,  resting  in  dreamy  quiet  within  the  shade 
of  the  embroidered  curtains,  was  even  as  the  Hart  pasturing  in 
temporary  security  before  the  quaint  pavilion.  The  mark  of  her 
bereavement  was  upon  her  sensibly  still — would  be  so  until  the 
end.  Often  in  the  night,  when  Denny  had  at  last  left  her, 
she  would  wake  suddenly  and  stretch  her  arms  out  across  the 
vacant  space  of  the  wide  bed,  calling  softly  to  the  beloved  one 
who  could  give  no  answer,  and  then,  recollecting,  would  sob 
herself  again  to  sleep.     Often,  too,  as  Ormiston's  step  sounded 


THE  CLOWN  71 

through  the  Chapel-Room  when  he  came  to  pay  her  those  short, 
frequent  visits,  bringing  the  clean  freshness  of  the  outer  air  along 
with  him,  Katherine  would  look  up  in  a  wondering  gladness, 
cheating  herself  for  an  instant  with  unreasoning  delight — look  up, 
only  to  know  her  sorrow,  and  feel  the  knife  turn  in  the  wound. 
Nevertheless  these  days  made,  in  the  main,  for  peace  and  heal- 
ing. On  more  than  one  occasion  she  petitioned  that  Julius 
March  should  come  and  read  to  her,  choosing,  as  the  book  he 
should  read  from,  Spenser's  Faerie  Quee?ie.  He  obeyed,  in 
manner  calm,  in  spirit  deeply  moved.  Katherine  spoke  little. 
But  her  charm  was  great,  as  she  lay,  her  eyes  changeful  in  colour 
as  a  moorland  stream,  listening  to  those  intricate  stanzas,  in 
which  the  large  hope,  the  pride  of  honourable  deeds,  the  virtue, 
the  patriotism,  the  masculine  fearlessness,  the  ideality,  the 
fantastic  imagination,  of  the  English  Renaissance  so  nobly  finds 
voice.  They  comforted  her  mind,  set  by  instinct  and  training  to 
welcome  all  splendid  adventures  of  romance,  of  nature,  and  of 
faith.  They  carried  her  back,  in  dear  remembrance,  to  the  per- 
plexing and  enchanting  discoveries  which  Richard  Calmady's 
visit  to  Ormiston  Castle — the  many-towered,  grey  house  looking 
eastward  across  the  unquiet  sea — had  brought  to  her.  And 
specially  did  they  recall  to  her  that  first  evening — even  yet  she 
grew  hot  as  she  thought  of  it — when  the  supposed  gentleman- 
jockey,  whom  she  had  purposed  treating  with  gay  and  reducing 
indifference,  proved  not  only  fine  scholar  and  fine  gentleman, 
but  absolute  and  indisputable  master  of  her  heart. 

Dr.  Knott  came  to  see  her,  too,  almost  daily — rough,  tender- 
hearted, humorous,  dependable,  never  losing  sight,  in  his 
intercourse  with  her,  of  the  matter  in  hand,  of  the  thing  which 
immediately  is. 

Thus  did  these  three  men,  each  according  to  his  nature  and 
capacity,  strive  to  guard  the  poor  Hart,  pasturing  before  the 
quaint  pavilion,  set— for  its  passing  refreshment — in  the  midst 
of  the  Forest  of  This  Life,  and  to  keep,  just  so  long  as  was 
possible,  the  pursuing  Leopard  at  bay.  Neverlheless  the 
Ivcopard  gained,  despite  of  their  faithful  guardianship  —  which 
was  inevitable,  the  case  standing  as  it  did. 

For  one  bright  afternoon,  about  three  o'clock,  Mrs.  Denny 
arrived  in  the  gun-room,  where  Ormiston  sat  smoking,  while 
talking  over  with  Julius  the  turf -cutting  claims  of  certain 
squatters  on  Spendlc  Flats — arrived,  not  to  summon  the  latter 
to  further  readings  of  the  great  Elizabethan  poet,  but  to  say  to 
the  former : — 

"  Will  you  please  come  at  once,  sir  ?     Her  ladyship  is  sitting 


72  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

up.  She  is  a  little  difficult  about  the  baby — only,  you  know, 
sir,  if  I  can  say  it  with  all  respect,  in  her  pretty,  teasing  way. 
But  I  am  afraid  she  must  be  told." 

And  Roger  rose  and  went  —  sick  at  heart.  He  would 
rather  have  faced  an  enemy's  battery,  vomiting  out  shot  and 
shell,  than  gone  up  the  broad,  stately  staircase,  and  by  the 
silent,  sunny  passage-ways,  to  that  fragrant,  white  -  panelled 
room. 

On  the  stands  and  tables  were  bowls  full  of  clear-coloured, 
spring  flowers  —  early  primrose,  jonquil,  and  narcissus.  A 
wood-fire  burned  upon  the  blue-and- white  tiled  hearth.  And  on 
the  sofa,  drawn  up  at  right  angles  to  it,  Katherine  sat,  wrapped 
in  a  grey,  s'lk  dressing-gown  bordered  with  soft,  white  fur.  She 
flushed  slightly  as  her  brother  came  in,  and  spoke  to  him  with 
an  air  of  playful  apology. 

"I  really  don't  know  why  you  should  have  been  dragged 
up  here,  just  now,  dear  old  man !  It  is  some  fancy  of 
Denny's.  I'm  afraid  in  the  excess  of  her  devotion  she  makes 
me  rather  a  nuisance  to  you.  And  now,  not  contented  with 
fussing  about  me,  she  has  taken  to  being  absurdly  mysterious 
about  the  baby" — 

She    stopped    abruptly.      Something    in    the   young   man's 
expression  and  bearing  impressed  her,  causing  her  to  stretch 
out  her  hands  to  him  in  swift  fear  and  entreaty. 
"  Oh,  Roger  ! "  she  cried,  "  Roger— what  is  it  ?  " 

And  he  told  her,  repeating,  with  but  a  few  omissions,  the 
statement  made  to  him  by  the  doctor  ten  days  ago.  He  dared 
not  look  at  her  while  he  spoke,  lest  seeing  her  should  unnerve 
him  altogether. 

Katherine  was  very  still.  She  made  no  outcry.  Yet  her 
very  stillness  seemed  to  him  the  more  ominous,  and  the  horror 
of  the  recital  grew  upon  him.  His  voice  sounded  to  him  un- 
naturally loud  and  harsh  in  the  surrounding  quiet.  Once  her 
silken  draperies  gave  a  shuddering  rustle— that  was  all. 

At  last  it  was  over.  At  last  he  dared  to  look  at  her.  The 
colour  and  youthful  roundness  had  gone  out  of  her  face.  It 
was  grey  as  her  dress,  fixed  and  rigid  as  a  marble  mask. 
Ormiston  was  overcome  with  a  consuming  pity  for  her  and 
with  a  violence  of  self-hatred.  Hangman,  and  to  his  own  sister 
— in  truth,  it  seemed  to  him  to  have  come  to  that !  He  knelt 
down  in  front  of  her,  laying  hold  of  both  her  knees. 

"Kitty,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  for  telling  you  this?"  he 
asked  hoarsely. 

Even  in  this  extremity  Katherine's  inherent  sweetness  asserted 


THE  CLOWN  73 

itself.  She  would  have  smiled,  but  her  frozen  lips  refused.  Her 
eyelids  quivered  a  little  and  closed. 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "Indeed, 
it  is  good  of  you  to  tell  me,  since — since  so  it  is." 

She  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  gripping  them  fast, 
and  bowed  her  head.  The  little  flames  crackled,  dancing  among 
the  pine  logs,  and  the  silk  of  her  dress  rustled  as  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell. 

"It  won't  make  you  ill  again?"  Roger  asked  anxiously. 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"Oh  no  !"  she  said,  "I  have  no  more  time  for  illness.  This 
is  a  thing  to  cure,  as  a  cautery  cures — to  burn  away  all  idleness 
and  self-indulgent,  sick-room  fancies.  See,  I  am  strong,  I 
am  well." 

She  stood  up,  her  hands  slipping  down  from  Ormiston's 
shoulders  and  steadying  themselves  on  his  hands  as  he  too 
rose.  Her  face  was  still  ashen,  but  purpose  and  decision  had 
come  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  this  for  me,"  she  said,  almost  imperiously.  "  Go  to 
Denny,  tell  her  to  bring  me  the  baby.  She  is  to  leave  him  with 
me.  And  tell  her,  as  she  loves  both  him  and  me,— as  she  values 
her  place  here  at  Brockhurst, — she  is  not  to  speak." 

As  he  looked  at  her  Ormiston  turned  cold.  She  was  terrible 
just  then. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said  quickly,  "what  on  earth  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"  No  harm  to  my  baby  in  any  case — you  need  not  be  alarmed. 
I  am  quite  to  be  trusted.  Only  I  cannot  be  reasoned  with  or 
opposed,  still  less  condoled  with  or  comforted,  yet.  I  want  my 
baby,  and  I  must  have  him,  here,  alone,  the  doors  shut — locked 
if  I  please." — Her  lips  gave,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drooped. 
And  watching  her  Ormiston  swore  a  little  under  his  breath. — 
"We  have  something  to  say  to  each  other,  the  baby  and  I,"  she 
went  on,  "  which  no  one  else  may  hear.  So  do  what  1  ask  you, 
Roger.  And  come  back — I  may  want  you — in  about  an  hour, 
if  I  do  not  send  for  you  before." 

Alone  with  her  child.  Lady  Calmady  moved  slowly  across 
and  bolted  both  the  nursery  and  the  Chapcl-Room  doors.  Then 
she  drew  a  low  stool  up  in  front  of  the  fire  and  sat  down,  laying 
the  infant  uf)on  her  lap.  It  was  a  delicious,  dimpled  creature, 
with  a  quantity  of  silky,  golden-brown  hair,  that  curled  in  a  tiny 
crest  along  the  top  of  its  head.  It  was  but  half  awake  yet,  the 
rounded  cheeks  jjink  with  the  comfort  of  food  and  slumber. 
And  as  the  beautiful,  young  mother,  bending  that   set,  ashen 


74  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

face  of  hers  above  it,  laid  the  child  upon  her  knees,  it  stretched, 
clenching  soft,  baby  fists  and  rubbing  them  into  its  blue  eyes. 

Katherine  unwrapped  the  shawls,  and  took  off  one  small 
garment  after  another — delicate  gossamer -like  things  of  fine 
flannel,  lawn  and  lace,  such  as  women's  fingers  linger  over  in 
the  making  with  tender  joy.  Once  her  resolution  failed  her. 
She  wrapped  the  half-dressed  child  in  its  white  shawls  again,  rose 
from  her  place  and  walked  over  to  the  sunny  window,  carrying 
it  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm — it  staring  up,  meanwhile,  with  the 
strange  wonder  of  baby  eyes,  and  cooing,  as  though  holding 
communication  with  gracious  presences  haunting  the  moulded 
ceiling  above.  Katherine  gazed  at  it  for  a  few  seconds.  But 
the  little  creature's  serene  content,  its  absolute  unconsciousness 
of  its  own  evil  fortune,  pained  her  too  greatly.  She  went  back, 
sat  down  on  the  stool  again,  and  completed  the  task  she  had  set 
herself. 

Then,  the  baby  lying  stark  naked  on  her  lap,  she  studied  the 
fair,  little  face,  the  pencilled  eyebrows  and  fringed  eyelids — dark 
like  her  own, — the  firm,  rounded  arms,  the  rosy-palmed  hands, 
their  dainty  fingers  and  finger-nails,  the  well-proportioned  and 
well-nourished  body,  without  smallest  mark  or  blemish  upon  it, 
sound,  wholesome,  and  complete.  All  these  she  studied  long 
and  carefully,  while  the  dancing  glow  of  the  firelight  played  over 
the  child's  delicate  flesh,  and  it  extended  its  little  arms  in  the 
pleasant  warmth,  holding  them  up,  as  in  act  of  adoration,  towards 
those  gracious  unseen  presences,  still,  apparently,  hovering  above 
the  flood  of  instreaming  sunshine  against  the  ceiling  overhead. 
Lastly  she  turned  her  eyes,  with  almost  dreadful  courage,  upon 
the  mutilated,  malformed  limbs,  upon  the  feet — set  right  up 
where  the  knee  should  have  been,  thus  dwarfing  the  child  by  a 
fourth  of  his  height.  She  observed  them,  handled,  felt  them. 
And,  as  she  did  so,  her  mother-love,  which,  until  now,  had  been 
but  a  part  and  consequence — since  the  child  was  his  gift,  the 
crown  and  outcome  of  their  passion,  his  and  hers — of  the  great 
love  she  bore  her  husband,  became  distinct  from  that,  an 
emotion  by  itself,  heretofore  unimagined,  pervasive  of  all  her 
being.  It  had  none  of  the  sweet  self- abandon,  the  dear 
enchantments,  the  harmonising  sense  of  safety  and  repose,  which 
that  earlier  passion  had.  This  was  altogether  different  in 
character,  and  made  quite  other  demands  on  mind  and  heart. 
P'or  it  was  fierce,  watchful,  anxious,  violent  with  primitive 
instinct ;  the  roots  of  it  planted  far  back  in  that  unthinkable 
remoteness  of  time,  when  the  fertile  womb  of  the  great  Earth 
Mother  began  to  bring  forth  the  first  blind,  simple  forms  of 


THE  CLOWN  75 

those  countless  generations  of  living  creatures  which,  slowly 
differentiating  themselves,  slowly  developing,  have  peopled  this 
planet  from  that  immeasurable  past  to  the  present  hour.  Love 
between  man  and  woman  must  be  forever  young,  even  as  Eros, 
Cupid,  Krishna,  are  forever  youthful  gods.  But  mother-love  is 
of  necessity  mature,  majestic,  ancient,  from  the  stamp  of  primal 
experience  which  is  upon  it. 

And  so,  at  this  juncture,  realising  that  which  her  motherhood 
meant,  her  immaturity,  her  girlhood,  fell  away  from  Katherine 
Calmady.  Her  life  and  the  purpose  of  it  moved  forward  on 
another  plane. 

She  bent  down  and  solemnly  kissed  the  unlovely,  shortened 
limbs,  not  once  or  twice  but  many  times,  yielding  herself  up 
with  an  almost  voluptuous  intensity  to  her  own  emotion.  She 
clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees,  so  that  the  child  might  be 
enclosed,  over-shadowed,  embraced  on  all  sides,  by  the  living 
defences  of  its  mother's  love.  Alone  there,  with  no  witnesses, 
she  brooded  over  it,  crooned  to  it,  caressed  it  with  an  insatiable 
hunger  of  tenderness. 

"And  yet,  my  poor  pretty,  if  we  had  both  died,  you  and  I, 
ten  days  ago,"  she  murmured,  "  how  far  better  !  For  what  will 
you  say  to  me  when  you  grow  older — to  me  who  have  brought 
you,  without  any  asking  or  will  of  yours,  into  a  world  in  which 
you  must  always  be  at  so  cruel  a  disadvantage  ?  How  will  you 
bear  it  all  when  you  come  to  face  it  for  yourself,  and  I  can  no 
longer  shield  you  and  hide  you  away  as  I  can  do  now?  Will 
you  have  fortitude  to  endure,  or  will  you  become  sour,  vindic- 
tive, misanthropic,  envious  ?  Will  you  curse  the  hour  of  your 
birth  ?  " 

Katherine  bowed  her  proud  head  still  lower. 

"Ah!  don't  do  that,  my  darling,"  she  prayed  in  piteous 
entreaty,  "don't  do  that.  For  I  will  share  all  your  trouble,  do 
share  it  even  now,  beforehand,  foreseeing  it,  wliile  you  still  lie 
smiling  unknowing  of  your  own  distress.  I  shall  live  through  it 
many  times,  by  day  and  night,  while  you  live  through  it  only 
once.  And  so  you  must  be  forbearing  towards  me,  my  dear 
one,  when  you  come  " — 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  her  hands  fell  at  her  sides,  and  she 
sat  rigidly  upright,  her  lips  parted,  staring  blankly  at  the  dancing 
flames. 

In  repeating  Dr.  Knott's  statement  Ormiston  had  purposely 
abstained  from  all  mention  of  Richard  Calmady's  accident  and 
its  tragic  sequel.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  to 
Katherine  of  that.     Until  now,  dominated  by  the  rush  of  her 


/6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

emotion,  she  had  only  recognised  the  bare  terrible  fact  of  the 
baby's  crippled  condition,  without  attempting  to  account  for  it. 
But,  now,  suddenly  the  truth  presented  itself  to  her.  She  under- 
stood that  she  was  herself,  in  a  sense,  accountable — that  the 
greatness  of  her  love  for  the  father  had  maimed  the  child. 

As  she  realised  the  profound  irony  of  the  position,  a  black- 
ness of  misery  fell  upon  Katherine.  And  then,  since  she  was  of 
a  strong,  undaunted  spirit,  an  immense  anger  possessed  her,  a 
revolt  against  nature  which  could  work  such  wanton  injury,  and 
against  God,  who,  being  all-powerful,  could  sit  by  and  permit  it 
so  to  work.  All  the  foundations  of  faith  and  reverence  were,  for 
the  time  being,  shaken  to  the  very  base. 

She  gathered  the  naked  baby  up  against  her  bosom,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro  in  a  paroxysm  of  rebellious  grief. 

"  God  is  unjust ! "  she  cried  aloud.  "  He  takes  pleasure  in 
fooling  us.     God  is  unjust ! " 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    BIRDS    OF    THE    AIR    TAKE    THEIR    BREAKFAST 

ORMISTON'S  first  sensation  on  re-entering  his  sister's  room 
was  one  of  very  sensible  relief.  For  Katherine  leaned 
back  against  the  pink,  brocade  cushions  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  with  the  baby  sleeping  peacefully  in  her  arms.  Her  colour 
was  more  normal  too,  her  features  less  masklike  and  set.  The 
cloud  which  had  shadowed  the  young  man's  mind  for  nearly  a 
fortnight  lifted.  She  knew — therefore,  he  argued,  the  worst 
must  be  over.  It  was  an  immense  gain  that  this  thing  was  fairly 
said.  Yet,  as  he  came  nearer  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside 
her,  Ormiston,  who  was  a  keen  observer  both  of  horses  and 
women,  became  aware  of  a  subtle  change  in  Katherine.  He 
was  struck — he  had  never  noticed  it  before — by  her  likeness  to 
her — -and  his — father,  whose  stern,  high-bred,  clean-shaven  face 
and  rather  inaccessible  bearing  and  manner  impressed  his  son, 
even  to  this  day,  as  somewhat  alarming.  People  were  careful 
not  to  trifle  with  old  Mr.  Ormiston.  His  will  was  absolute  in 
his  own  house,  with  his  tenants,  and  in  the  great  iron-works — 
almost  a  town  in  itself — which  fed  his  fine  fortune.  While 
from  his  equals — even  from  his  fellow-members  of  that  not  over- 
reverent  or  easily  impressible  body,  the  House  of  Commons — he 
required  and  received  a  degree  of  deference  such  as  men  yield 


THE  CLOWN  77 

only  to  an  unusually  powerful  character.  And  there  was  now 
just  such  underlying  energy  in  Katherine's  expression.  Her 
eyes  were  dark,  as  a  clear,  midnight  sky  is  dark,  her  beautiful 
lips  compressed,  but  with  concentration  of  purpose  not  with 
weakness  of  sorrow.  The  force  of  her  motherhood  had  awakened 
in  Katherine  a  latent,  titanic  element.  Like  "Prometheus 
Bound,"  chained  to  the  rock,  torn,  her  spirit  remained  unquelled. 
For  good  or  evil — as  the  event  should  prove — she  defied  the 
gods. 

And  something  of  all  this — though  he  would  have  worded  it 
very  differently  in  the  vernacular  of  passing  fashion — Ormiston 
perceived.  She  was  unbroken  by  that  which  had  occurred,  and 
for  this  he  was  thankful.  But  she  was  another  woman  to  her 
who  had  greeted  him  in  pretty  apology  an  hour  ago.  Yet,  even 
recognising  this,  her  first  words  produced  in  him  a  shock  of 
surprise. 

"Is  that  horse,  the  Clown,  still  at  the  stables?"  she  asked. 
Ormiston  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  sofa  with  his  knees  apart,  stared  down  at  the 
carpet.  The  mention  of  the  Clown  always  cut  him,  and  raised 
in  him  a  remorseful  anger. — Yes  she  was  like  his  father,  going 
straight  to  the  point,  he  thought.  And,  in  this  case,  the  point 
was  acutely  painful  to  him  personally.  Ormiston's  moral  courage 
had  been  severely  taxed,  and  he  had  a  fair  share  of  the  selfish- 
ness common  to  man.  It  was  all  very  well,  but  he  wished  to 
goodness  she  had  chosen  some  other  subject  than  this.  Yet  he 
must  answer. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  Willy  Taylor  has  been  leading  the  gallops 
for  the  two-year-olds  on  him  for  the  last  month." — He  paused. 
"What  about  the  Clown  1 " 

"  Only  that  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  Chifney  he 
must  find  some  other  horse  to  lead  the  gallops." 
Ormiston  turned  his  head. 

"I  see— you  wish  the  horse  sold,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

Katharine  looked  down  at  the  sleeping  baby,  its  round  head, 

crowned  by  that  delicious  crest  of  silky  hair,  cuddled  in  against 

her  breast.     'I'hen  she   looked   in    her   brother's  eyes  full  and 

steadily. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  want  it  sold.  I  want  it  shot 
— by  you,  here,  to-night." 

"T'.y  Jove!"  the  young  man  exclaimed,  rising  hastily  and 
standing  in  front  of  her. 

Katherine  gazed  up  at  him,  and  held  the  child  a  little  closer 
to  her  breast. 


yS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I  have  been  alone  with  my  baby.  Don't  you  suppose  I 
see  how  it  has  come  about  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  damn  it  all ! "  Ormiston  cried.  "  I  prayed  at  least 
you  might  be  spared  thinking  of  that." 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa  again — while  the  baby 
clenching  its  tiny  fist,  stretched  and  murmured  in  its  sleep — and 
bowed  himself  together,  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 
chin  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  at  the  bottom  of  it.  It's  all  my  fault,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  haunted  by  the  thought  of  that  day  and  night,  for,  if  ever 
one  man  loved  another,  I  loved  Richard.  And  yet  if  I  hadn't 
been  so  cursedly  keen  about  the  horse  all  this  might  never  have 
happened.  Oh  !  if  you  only  knew  how  often  I've  wished  myself 
dead  since  that  ghastly  morning.  You  must  hate  me,  Kitty. 
You've  cause  enough.  Yet  how  the  deuce  could  I  foresee  what 
would  come  about?" 

For  the  moment  Katherine's  expression  softened.  She  laid 
her  left  hand  very  gently  on  his  bowed  head. 

"I  could  never  hate  you,  dear  old  man,"  she  said.  "You  are 
innocent  of  Richard's  death.  But  this  last  thing  is  different." — 
Her  voice  became  fuller  and  deeper  in  tone.  "And  whether 
I  am  equally  innocent  of  his  child's  disfigurement,  God  only 
knows — if  there  is  a  God,  which  perhaps,  just  now,  I  had  better 
doubt,  lest  I  should  blaspheme  too  loudly,  hoping  my  bitter 
words  may  reach  His  hearing." 

Yet  further  disturbed  in  the  completeness  of  its  comfort,  as 
it  would  seem,  by  the  seriousness  of  her  voice,  the  baby's  mouth 
puckered.  It  began  to  fret.  Katherine  rose  and  stood  rocking 
it,  soothing  it — a  queenly,  young  figure  in  her  clinging  grey  and 
white  draperies,  which  the  instreaming  sunshine  touched,  as  she 
moved,  to  a  delicate  warmth  of  colour. 

"  Hush,  my  pretty  lamb,"  she  crooned — and  then  softly  yet 
fiercely  to  Ormiston  : — "You  understand,  I  wish  it.  The  Clown 
is  to  be  shot." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered. 

"  Sleep — what  troubles  you,  my  precious,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
want  it  done,  now,  at  once. — Hush,  baby,  hush. — The  sun  shall 
not  go  down  upon  my  wrath,  because  my  wrath  shall  be  some- 
what appeased  before  the  sunset." 

Katherine  swayed  with  a  rhythmic  motion,  holding  the  baby 
a  little  away  from  her  in  her  outstretched  arms. 

"Tell  Chifney  to  bring  the  horse  up  to  the  square  lawn,  here, 
right  in  front  of  the  house. — Hush,  my  kitty  sweet. — He  is  to 
bring  the  horse  himself.     None  of  the  stable  boys  or  helpers  are 


THE  CLOWN  79 

to  come.  It  is  not  to  be  an  entertainment,  but  an  execution.  I 
wish  it  done  quietly." 

"  Very  well,"  Ormiston  repeated.  He  hesitated,  strong  pro- 
test rising  to  his  lips,  which  he  could  not  quite  bring  himself 
to  utter.  Katherine,  the  courage  and  tragedy  of  her  anger, 
dominated  him  as  she  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  sunshine  soothing 
her  child. 

"  You  know  it's  a  valuable  horse  ? "  he  remarked,  at  last, 
tentatively. 

"  So  much  the  better.  You  do  not  suppose  I  should  care  to 
take  that  which  costs  me  nothing  ?  I  am  quite  willing  to  pay. — 
Sleep,  my  pet,  so — is  that  better  ? — I  do  not  propose  to  defraud 
— hush,  baby  darling,  hush — Richard's  son  of  any  part  of  his 
inheritance.  Tell  Chifney  to  name  a  price  for  the  Clown,  an 
outside  price.  He  shall  have  a  cheque  to-morrow,  which  he  is  to 
enter  with  the  rest  of  the  stable  accounts. — Now  go,  please.  We 
understand  each  other  clearly,  and  it  is  growing  late. — Poor 
honey  love,  what  vexes  you  ? — You  will  shoot  the  Clown,  here, 
before  sunset.  And,  Roger,  it  must  lie  where  it  falls  to-night. 
Let  some  of  the  men  come  early  to-morrow,  with  a  float.  It  is 
to  go  to  the  kennels." 

Ormiston  got  up,  shaking  his  shoulders  as  though  to  rid 
himself  of  some  encumbering  weight.  He  crossed  to  the  fire- 
place and  kicked  the  logs  together. 

"  I  don't  half  like  it,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you  I  don't.  It  seems 
such  a  cold-blooded  butchery.  I  can't  tell  if  it's  wrong  or  right. 
It  seems  merciless.  And  it  is  so  unlike  you,  Kitty,  to  be 
merciless." 

He  turned  to  her  as  he  spoke,  and  Katherine — her  head 
erect,  her  eyes  full  of  the  sombre  fire  of  her  profound  alienation 
and  revolt — drew  her  hand  slowly  down  over  the  fine  lawn  and 
lace  of  the  baby's  long,  white  robe,  and  held  it  flat  against  the 
soles  of  the  child's  hidden  feet. 

"  Look  at  this,"  she  said.  "  Remember,  too,  that  the  delight 
of  my  life  has  gone  from  me,  and  that  I  am  young  yet.  'I'he 
years  will  be  many-  and  Richard  is  dead.  Has  much  mercy 
been  shown  to  me,  do  you  think  ?" 

And  the  young  man  seeing  her,  knowing  the  absolute 
sincerity  of  her  speech,  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat.  After  all, 
when  you  have  acted  hangman  to  your  own  sister,  as  he  reasoned, 
it  is  but  a  small  matter  to  act  slaughterman  to  a  horse. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  huskily  enough.  "It  shall  be  as 
you  wish,  Kitty.  Only  go  back  to  the  sofa,  and  stay  there, 
fjlease.     If  I   think  you  are  watching,  I  can't  be  quite  sure  of 


8o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

myself.  Something  may  go  wrong,  and  we  don't  want  a  scene 
which  will  make  talk.  This  is  a  business  which  should  be  got 
through  as  quickly  and  decently  as  possible." 

The  sun  was  but  five  minutes  high  and  no  longer  brightened 
the  southern  house-front,  though  it  spread  a  ruddy  splendour 
over  the  western  range  of  gables,  and  lingered  about  the  stacks 
of  slender,  twisted  chimneys,  and  cast  long,  slanting  shadows 
across  the  lawns  and  carriage  drives,  before  Lady  Calmady's 
waiting  drew  to  a  close.  From  the  near  trees  of  the  elm  avenue, 
and  from  the  wood  overhanging  the  pond  below  the  terraced 
kitchen-gardens,  came  the  singing  of  blackbirds  and  thrushes — 
Avhether  raised  as  evening  hymn  in  praise  of  their  Creator,  or  as 
love-song  each  to  his  mate,  who  shall  say  ?  Possibly  as  both, 
since  in  simple  minds — and  that  assuredly  is  matter  for  thankful- 
ness— earthly  and  heavenly  affections  are  bounded  by  no  harsh 
dividing  line.  The  chorus  of  song  found  its  way  in  at  the 
windows  of  Katherine's  room — fresh  as  the  spring  flowers  which 
filled  it,  innocent  of  hatred  and  wrong  as  the  face  of  the  now 
placid  baby,  his  soft  cheeks  flushed  with  slumber,  as  he  nestled 
in  against  his  mother's  bosom. 

Indeed  a  long  time  had  passed.  Twice  Denny  had  looked  in 
and,  seeing  that  quiet  reigned,  had  noiselessly  withdrawn.  For 
Katherine,  still  physically  weak,  drained,  moreover,  by  the  great- 
ness of  her  recent  emotion,  her  senses  lulled  to  rest  by  the  warm 
contact  and  even  breathing  of  the  child,  had  sunk  away  into  a 
dreamless  sleep. 

The  questioning  neigh  of  a  stallion,  a  scuffle  of  horse  hoofs, 
footsteps  approaching  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  passing 
across  the  broad,  gravelled,  carriage  sweep  and  on  to  the  turf, 
aroused  her.  And  these  sounds  were  so  natural,  full  of  vigorous 
outdoor  life  and  the  wholesome  gladness  of  it,  that  for  a  moment 
she  came  near  repentance  of  her  purpose.  But  then  feeling,  as 
he  rested  on  her  arm,  her  baby's  shortened,  malformed  limbs,  and 
thinking  of  her  well-beloved  dying,  maimed  and  spent,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  manhood,  her  face  took  on  that  ashen  pallor  again 
and  all  relenting  left  her.  There  was  a  satisfaction  of  wild 
justice  in  the  act  about  to  be  consummated.  And  Katherine 
raised  herself  from  the  pink,  brocade  cushions  and  sat  erect, 
her  lips  parted  in  stern  excitement,  her  forehead  contracted  in  the 
effort  to  hear,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  wide,  carven,  ebony  bed  and 
its  embroidered  hangings.  The  poor  Hart  had,  indeed,  ceased 
to  pasture  in  reposeful  security  before  the  quaint  pavilion,  set — 
for  its  passing  refreshment — in  the  midst  of  the  Forest  of  This 
Life.     Now  it  fled,  desperate,  by  crooked,  tangled  ways,  over 


THE  CLOWN  8i 

rocks,  through  briars,   while  Care,  the  Leopard,  followed  hard 
behind. 

First  Roger  Ormiston's  voice  reached  her  in  brief  direction, 
and  the  trainer's  in  equally  brief  reply.  The  horse  neighed  again 
— a  sound  strident  and  virile,  the  challenge  of  a  creature  of 
perfect  muscle,  hot  desire,  and  proud,  quick-coursing  blood. 
Afterwards,  an  instant's  pause,  and  Chifney's  voice  again — "So- 
ho — my  beauty — take  it  easy — steady  there,  steady,  good  lad  " — 
and  the  slap  of  his  open  hand  on  the  horse's  shoulder  straighten- 
ing it  carefully  into  place.  While,  behind  and  below  all  this,  in 
sweet  incongruous  undertone  of  uncontrollable  joy,  arose  the 
carolling  of  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  praising,  according  to 
their  humble  powers,  God,  life,  and  love. 

Finally,  as  climax  of  the  drama,  the  sharp  report  of  a  pistol, 
ringing  out  in  shattering  disturbance  of  the  peace  of  the  fair 
spring  evening,  followed  by  a  dead  silence,  the  birds  all  scared 
and  dumb — a  silence  so  dead,  that  Katherine  Calmady  held  her 
breath,  almost  awed  by  it,  while  the  hissing  and  crackling  of  the 
little  flames  upon  the  hearth  seemed  to  obtrude  as  an  indecent 
clamour.  This  lasted  a  few  seconds.  Then  the  noise  of  a 
plunging  struggle  and  the  muffled  thud  of  something  falling 
heavily  upon  the  turf. 

Dr.  Knott  had  been  up  all  night.  But  his  patient.  Lord 
Denier's  second  coachman,  would  pull  through  right  enough, 
so  he  started  on  his  homeward  journey  in  a  complacent  frame  of 
mind.  He  reckoned  it  would  save  him  a  couple  of  miles,  let  alone 
the  long  hill  from  Farley  Row  up  to  Spendle  Flats,  if  on  his  way 
back  from  Grimshott  he  went  by  Brockhurst  House.  It  is  stretch- 
ing a  point,  he  admitted,  to  drive  under  even  your  neighbour's 
back  windows  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  But  the  doctor 
being  himself  unusually  amiable,  was  inclined  to  accredit  others 
with  a  like  share  of  good  temper.  Moreover,  the  natural  man  in 
him  cried  increasingly  loudly  for  food  and  bed. 

John  Knott  was  not  given  to  sentimental  rhapsodies  over 
the  beauties  of  nature.  Like  other  beauties  she  had  her  dirty 
enough  moods,  he  thought.  Still,  in  his  own  half-snarling 
fashion,  he  dearly  loved  this  forest  country  in  which  he  had 
been  born  and  bred,  while  he  was  too  keen  a  sportsman  to  be 
unobservant  of  any  aspect  of  wind  and  weatiier,  any  movement 
of  bird  or  beast.  With  the  collar  of  his  long,  drab  driving-coat 
turned  up  about  his  ears,  and  the  stem  of  a  well-coloured, 
meerschaum  pipe  between  his  teeth,  he  sat  huddled  together  in 
the  high,  swinging  gig,  with  Timothy,  the  weasel-faced,  old  groom, 
by  his  side,  while  the  pageant  of  the  opening  day  unfolded  itself 
6 


82  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

before  his  somewhat  critical  gaze.  He  noted  that  it  would  be 
fine,  though  windy.  In  the  valley,  over  the  Long  Water,  spread 
beds  of  close,  white  mist.  The  blue  of  the  upper  sky  was 
crossed  by  curved  winrows  of  flaky,  opalescent  cloud.  In 
the  east,  above  the  dusky  rim  of  the  fir  woods  on  the  edge 
of  the  high-lying  tableland,  stretched  a  blinding  blaze  of  rose- 
saffron,  shading  through  amber  into  pale  primrose-colour  above. 
The  massive  house-front,  and  the  walls  fencing  the  three  sides 
of  the  square  enclosure  before  it,  with  the  sexagonal,  pepper-pot 
summer-houses  at  either  corner,  looked  pale  and  unsubstantial  in 
that  diffused,  unearthly  light.  At  the  head  of  the  elm  avenue, 
passing  through  _  the  high,  wrought-iron  gates  and  along  the 
carriage  drive  which  skirts  the  said  enclosure, — the  great,  square 
grass  plot  on  the  right  hand,  the  red  wall  of  the  kitchen-gardens 
on  the  left, — Dr.  Knott  had  the  reins  nearly  jerked  out  of  his 
hand.  The  mare  started  and  swerved,  grazing  the  off  wheel 
against  the  brickwork,  and  stopped,  her  head  in  the  air,  her 
ears  pricked,  her  nostrils  dilated  showing  the  red. 

"Hullo,  old  girl,  what's  up?  Seen  a  ghost?"  he  said, 
drawing  the  whip  quietly  across  the  hollow  of  her  back. 

But  the  mare  only  braced  herself  more  stiffly,  refusing  to 
move,  while  she  trembled  and  broke  into  a  sudden  sweat.  The 
doctor  was  interested  and  looked  about  him.  He  would  first 
find  out  the  cause  of  her  queer  behaviour,  and  give  her  a  good 
dressing  down  afterwards  if  she  deserved  it. 

The  smooth,  slightly  up-sloping  lawn  was  powdered  with 
innumerable  dewdrops.  In  the  centre  of  it,  neck  outstretched, 
the  fine  legs  doubled  awkwardly  together,  the  hind  quarters  and 
barrel  rising,  as  it  lay  on  its  side,  in  an  unshapely  lump,  grey 
from  the  drenching  dew,  was  a  dead  horse.  Along  the  top  of 
the  farther  wall  a  smart  and  audacious  party  of  jackdaws  had 
stationed  themselves,  with  much  ruffling  of  grey,  neck  feathers, 
impudent  squeakings  and  chatter.  While  a  pair  of  carrion  crows 
hopped  slowly  and  heavily  about  the  carcass,  flapping  up  with  a 
stroke  or  two  of  their  broad  wings  in  sudden  suspicion,  then 
settling  down  again  nearer  than  before. 

"  Go  to  her  head,  Timothy,  and  get  her  by  as  quietly  as  you 
can.  I'll  be  after  you  in  a  minute,  but  I'm  bound  to  see  what 
the  dickens  they've  been  up  to  here." 

As  he  spoke  Dr.  Knott  hitched  himself  down  from  off  the  gig. 
He  was  cramped  with  sitting,  and  moved  forward  awkwardly, 
his  footsteps  leaving  a  track  of  dark  irregular  patches  upon  the 
damp  grass.  As  he  approached,  the  jackdaws  flung  themselves 
gleefully  upward  from  the  wall,  the  sun  glinting  on  their  glossy 


THE  CLOWN  83 

plumage  as  they  circled  and  sailed  away  across  the  park.  But 
the  crow,  who  had  just  begun  work  in  earnest,  stood  his  ground 
notwithstanding  the  warning  croak  of  his  more  timid  mate. 
He  grasped  the  horse's  skull  with  his  claws,  and  tore  away 
greedily  at  the  fine  skin  about  the  eye-socket  with  his  strong, 
black  beak. 

"  How's  this,  my  fine  gentleman,  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  this 
morning  to  wait  for  the  flavour  to  get  into  your  meat  ?  "  John 
Knott  said,  as  the  bird  rose  sullenly  at  last.  "Got  a  small 
hungry  family  at  home,  I  suppose,  crying  'give,  give.'  Well, 
that's  taught  better  men  than  you,  before  now,  not  to  be  too 
nice,  but  to  snatch  at  pretty  well  anything  they  can  get." 

He  came  close  and  stood  looking  meditatively  down  at  the 
dead  racehorse — recognised  its  long,  white-reach  face,  the 
colour  and  make  of  it,  while  his  loose  lips  worked  with  a  con- 
temptuous yet  pitying  smile. 

"So  that's  the  way  my  lady's  taken  it,  has  she?"  he  said 
presently.  "On  the  whole  I  don't  know  that  I'm  sorry.  In 
some  cases  much  benefit  unquestionably  is  derivable  from  letting 
blood.  This  shows  she  doesn't  mean  to  go  under,  if  I  know 
her,  and  that's  a  mercy,  for  that  poor,  little  beggar,  the  baby's 
sake." 

He  turned  and  contemplated  the  stately  facade  of  the  house. 
The  ranges  of  windows,  blind  with  closed  shutters  and  drawn 
curtains,  in  the  early  sunshine  gave  off  their  many  panes  a  broad 
dazzle  of  white  light. 

"Poor,  little  beggar,"  he  repeated,  "with  his  forty  thousand 
a  year  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Such  a  race  to  run  and  yet  so 
badly  handicapped  ! " 

He  stooped  down,  examined  the  horse,  found  the  mark  of 
the  bullet. 

"Contradictory  beings,  though,  these  dear  women,"  he  went 
on.  "  So  fanciful  and  delicate,  so  sensitive  you're  afraid  to  lay  a 
finger  on  them.  So  unselfish,  ton,  some  of  them,  they  seem  too 
good  for  this  old  rough  and  tumble  of  a  world.  And  yet  touch 
'em  home,  and  they'll  show  an  unscrupulous  savagery  of  which 
we  coarse  brutes  of  men  should  be  more  than  half  ashamed. 
(lod  Almighty  made  a  little  more  than  He  bargained  for  when 
He  made  woman.  She  must  have  surprised  Him  pretty 
shrewdly,  one  would  think,  now  and  then  since  the  days  of  the 
apple  and  the  snake." 

He  moved  away  up  the  carriage  drive,  following  Timothy, 
the  sweating,  straining  mare,  and  swinging  gig.  The  carrion  crow 
flapped  back,  with  a  croak,  and  dropped  on   the  horse's  skull 


84  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

again.  Hearing  that  bodeful  sound  the  doctor  paused  a  moment, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  looked  round  at  the  bird 
and  its  ugly  work  set  as  foreground  to  that  pure  glory  of  the 
sunrise,  and  the  vast  and  noble  landscape,  misty  valley,  dewy 
grassland,  far-ranging  hillside  crowned  with  wood. 

"The  old  story,"  he  muttered,  "always  repeating  itself!  And 
it  strikes  one  as  rather  a  wasteful,  clumsy  contrivance,  at  times. 
Life  forever  feeding  on  death— death  forever  breeding  life." 

Thus  ended  the  Clown,  own  brother  to  Touchstone,  race- 
horse of  merry  name  and  mournful  memory,  paying  the  penalty 
of  wholly  involuntary  transgressions.  From  which  ending  another 
era  dated  at  Brockhurst,  the  most  notable  events  of  which  it 
is  the  purpose  of  the  ensuing  pages  duly  to  set  forth. 


BOOK  II 

THE   BREAKING   OF   DREAMS 

CHAPTER  I 

RECORDING    SOME    ASPECTS    OF    A    SMALL    PILGRIM''s    PROGRESS 

IT  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good,  says  the  comfortable 
proverb.  Which  would  appear  to  be  but  another  manner 
of  declaring  that  the  law  of  compensation  works  permanently  in 
human  affairs.  All  quantities,  material  and  immaterial  alike,  are, 
of  necessity,  stable  ;  therefore  the  loss  or  defect  of  one  participant 
must — indirectly,  no  doubt,  yet  very  surely — make  for  the  gain 
of  some  other.  As  of  old,  so  now,  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  is 
the  seed  of  the  Church. 

Julius  March  would,  how  gladly,  have  been  among  the 
martyrs  !  But  the  lot  fell  otherwise.  And — always  admitting 
the  harshness  of  the  limitations  he  had  imposed  on  himself — 
the  martyrdom  of  those  he  held  dearest,  did,  in  fact,  work  to 
secure  him  a  measure  of  content  that  had  otherwise  been 
unattainable.  The  twelve  years  following  the  birth  of  Lady 
Calmady's  child  were  the  most  fruitful  of  his  life.  He  filled  a 
post  no  other  person  could  have  filled  ;  one  which,  while  satisfying 
his  religious  sense  and  priestly  ideal  of  detachment,  appeased  the 
cravings  of  his  heart  and  developed  the  practical  man  in  him. 
The  contemplative  and  introspective  attitude  was  balanced  by  an 
active  and  objective  one.  For  he  continued  to  live  under  his 
dear  lady's  roof,  seeing  her  daily  and  serving  her  in  many 
matters.  He  watched  her,  admiring  her  ck-ar  yet  charitable 
judgment  and  her  prudence  in  business.  He  bowed  in  reverence 
before  her  perfect  singleness  of  j)urpose.  He  was  almost 
appalled  apprehending,  now  and  then,  the  secret  abysses  of 
her  womanhood,  the  immensity  of  her  self-devotion,  the  swing 
of  her  nature  from  quick,  sensitive  shrinking  to  almost  impious 

S6 


Z6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

r,     f  pride.      Man  is  the   outcome   of  the   eternal   common  sense ; 

"   '      I  woman  that  of  some  moment  of  divine  folly.     Meanwhile  the 

^    '^j,^ '  ways  of  true  love  are  many,  and  Julius  March,  thus  watching 

"  'f      his  dear  lady,  discovered,  as  other  elect  souls  have  discovered 

before  him,  that  the  way  of  chastity  and  silence,  notwithstanding 

its  very  constant  heartache,  is   by  no   means   among  the  least 

sweet.     The  entries  in  his  diaries  of  this  period  are  intermittent, 

concise,  and  brief — naturally  enough,  since  the  central  figure  of 

Julius's  mental  picture  had  ceased,  happily  for  him,  to  be  Julius 

himself. 

And,  not  only  Katherine's  sorrows,  but  the  unselfish  action 
of  another  woman,  went  to  make  Julius  March's  position  at 
Brockhurst  tenable.  A  few  days  after  Ormiston's  momentous 
interview  with  his  sister,  news  came  of  Mrs.  St.  Quentin's  death. 
She  had  passed  hence  peacefully  in  her  sleep.  Knowledge  of 
the  facts  of  poor,  little  Dickie  Calmady's  ill-fortune  had  been 
spared  her.  For  it  would  be  more  satisfactory — so  Mademoiselle 
de  Mirancourt  had  remarked,  not  without  a  shade  of  irony — that 
if  Lucia  St.  Quentin  must  learn  the  sad  fact  at  all,  she  should 
learn  it  where  /e  bon  Dieic  Himself  would  be  at  hand  to  explain 
matters,  and  so,  in  a  degree,  set  them  right. 

Early  in  April  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  had  gathered 
together  her  most  precious  possessions  and  closed  the  pretty 
apartment  in  the  rue  de  Rennes.  It  had  been  a  happy  halting- 
place  on  the  journey  of  life.  It  was  haunted  by  well-beloved 
ghosts.  It  cost  her  not  a  little  to  bid  it,  the  neighbouring  church 
of  the  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  where  she  had  so  long  worshipped, 
and  her  little  coterie  of  intimate  friends,  farewell.  Yet  she  set 
forth,  taking  with  her  Henriette,  the  hard-featured,  old,  Breton 
maid,  and  Monsieur  Pouf,  the  grey,  Persian  cat, — he  protesting 
plaintively  from  within  a  large,  Manilla  basket, — and  thus  accom- 
panied, made  pilgrimage  to  Brockhurst.  And  when  Katherine, 
all  the  lost  joys  of  her  girlhood  assailing  her  at  sight  of  her 
lifelong  friend,  had  broken  down  for  once,  and,  laying  her 
beautiful  head  on  the  elder  woman's  shoulder,  had  sobbed  out 
a  question  as  to  when  this  visit  must  end,  Marie  de  Mirancourt 
had  answered  : — 

"That,  most  dear  one,  is  precisely  as  you  shall  see  fit  to 
decide.     It  need  not  end  till  I  myself  end,  if  you  so  please." 

And  when  Katherine,  greatly  comforted  yet  fearing  to  be 
over-greedy  of  comfort,  had  reasoned  with  her,  reminding  her  of 
the  difference  of  climate,  the  different  habits  of  living  in  that  gay, 
little,  Paris  home  and  this  great,  English  country-house ;  remind- 
ing her,  further,  of  her  so  often  and  fondly  expressed  desire  to 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  87 

retire  from  the  world  while  yet  in  the  complete  possession  of  her 
powers  and  prepare  for  the  inevitable  close  within  the  calm 
and  sacred  precincts  of  the  convent — the  other  replied  almost 
gaily  :— 

"Ah,  my  child  !  I  have  still  a  naughty  little  spirit  of  experi- 
ment in  me  which  defies  the  barbarities  of  your  climate.  While 
as  to  the  convent,  it  has  beckoned  so  long — let  it  beckon  still ! 
It  called  first  when  my  fiance  died, — God  rest  his  soul, — worn 
out  by  the  hardships  he  endured  in  the  war  of  La  Vendee,  and 
I  put  from  me,  forever,  all  thought  of  marriage.  But  then  my 
mother,  an  emigrant  here  in  London,  claimed  all  my  care.  It 
called  me  again  when  she  departed,  dear  saintly  being.  But 
then  there  were  my  brother's  sons — orphaned  by  the  guillotine — 
to  place.  And  when  I  had  established  them  honourably,  our 
beloved  Lucia  turned  to  me,  with  her  many  enchantments  and 
exquisite  tragedy  of  the  heart.  And,  now,  in  my  old  age  I  come 
to  you — whom  I  receive  from  her  as  a  welcome  legacy — to 
remain  just  so  long  as  I  am  not  a  burden  to  you.  Second 
childhood  and  first  should  understand  one  another.  We  will 
play  delightful  games  together,  the  dear  baby  and  I.  So  let  the 
convent  beckon.  For  the  convent  is  perhaps,  after  all,  but  an 
impatient  grasping  at  the  rest  of  paradise,  before  that  rest  is 
fairly  earned.  I  have  a  good  hope  that,  after  all,  we  give  our- ' 
selves  most  acceptably  to  God  in  thus  giving  ourselves  to  His 
human  creatures." 

Thus  did  Marie  de  Mirancourt,  for  love's  sake,  condemn 
herself  to  exile,  thereby  rendering  possible — among  other  things 
— Julius's  continued  residence  at  Brockhurst.  For  Captain 
Ormiston  had  held  true  to  his  resolve  of  scorning  the  delights 
of  idleness,  the  smiles  of  ladies  more  fair  and  kind  than  wise, 
and  all  those  other  pleasant  iniquities  to  which  idleness  inclines 
the  young  and  full-blooded,  of  bidding  farewell  to  London  and 
Windsor,  and  proceeding  to  "live  laborious  days"  in  some  far 
country.  He  had  offered  to  remain  indefinitely  with  Katherine 
if  she  needed  him.  But  she  refused.  Let  him  be  faithful  to  the 
noble  profession  of  arms  and  make  a  name  for  himself  therein. 

"  Brockhurst  has  ceased  to  be  a  i)lace  for  a  soldier,"  she 
said.  "  Leave  it  to  women  and  priests  !  "  And  then,  repenting 
of  the  bitterness  of  her  speech,  she  added : — "  Really  there  is 
not  more  work  than  I  can  manage,  with  Julius  to  help  me  at 
times.  lies  is  a  good  servant  if  a  little  tediously  pompous,  and 
Chifney  must  sec  to  the  stables." — Lady  Calmarly  paused,  and 
her  face  grew  hard.  But  for  her  iuishand's  dying  reciuest,  she 
would  have  sold  every  horse  in  the  stud,  razed  the  great  scjuare 


88  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  buildings  to  the  ground  and  made  the  site  of  it  a  dunghill. — 
"  Work  is  a  drug  to  deaden  thought.  So  it  is  a  kindness  to  let 
me  have  plenty  of  it,  dear  old  man.  And  I  fear,  even  when  the 
labour  of  each  day  is  done,  and  Dickie  is  safe  asleep, — poor 
darling, — I  shall  still  have  more  than  enough  of  time  for  thought, 
for  asking  those  questions  to  which  there  seems  no  answer,  and 
for  desires,  vain  as  they  are  persistent,  that  things  were  somehow, 
anyhow,  other  than  they  are  ! " 

Therefore  it  came  about  that  a  singular  quiet  settled  down 
on  Brockhurst — a  quiet  of  waiting,  of  pause,  rather  than  of 
accomplishment.  But  Julius  March,  for  reasons  aforesaid,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  in  virtue  of  her  unclouded  faith 
in  the  teachings  of  her  Church, — which  assures  its  members  of 
the  beneficent  purpose  working  behind  all  the  sad  seeming  of 
this  world, — alike  rejoiced  in  that.  A  change  of  occupations 
and  of  interests  came  naturally  with  the  change  of  the  seasons, 
with  the  time  to  sow  and  reap,  to  plant  saplings,  to  fell  timber, 
to  fence,  to  cut  copsing,  to  build  or  rebuild,  to  receive  rents  or 
remit  them,  to  listen  to  many  appeals,  to  readjust  differences,  to 
feed  game  or  to  shoot  it,  to  bestow  charity  of  meat  and  fuel,  to 
haul  ice  in  winter  to  the  ice-house  from  the  lake.  But  beyond 
all  this  there  was  little  of  going  or  coming  at  Brockhurst.  The 
magnates  of  the  countryside  called  at  decent  intervals,  and  at 
decent  intervals  Lady  Calmady  returned  their  civilities.  But 
having  ceased  to  entertain,  she  refused  to  receive  entertainment. 
She  shut  herself  away  in  somewhat  jealous  seclusion,  defiant  of 
possibly  curious  glances  and  pitying  tongues.  Before  long  her 
neighbours,  therefore,  came  to  raise  their  eyebrows  a  little  in 
speaking  of  her,  and  to  utter  discreet  regrets  that  Lady  Calmady, 
though  handsome  and  charming  when  you  met  her,  was  so  very 
eccentric,  adding: — "Of  course  everyone  knows  there  is  some- 
thing very  uncomfortable  about  the  little  boy  ! "  Then  would 
follow  confidences  as  to  the  disastrous  results  of  popish  influences 
and  Romanising  tendencies,  and  an  openly  expressed  conviction 
— more  especially  on  the  part  of  ladies  blessed  with  daughters 
of  marriageable  age — that  it  would  have  been  so  very  much 
better  for  many  people  if  the  late  Sir  Richard  Calmady  had 
looked  nearer  home  for  a  bride. 

But  these  comments  did  not  affect  Katherine.  In  point  of 
fact  they  rarely  reached  her  ears.  Alone  among  her  neighbours, 
Mary  Cathcart,  of  the  crisp,  black  hair  and  gipsy-like  complexion, 
was  still  admitted  to  some  intimacy  of  intercourse.  And  the 
girl  was  far  too  loyal  either  to  bring  in  gossip  or  to  carry  it  out. 
Brockhurst  held  the  romance  of  her  heart.     And,  notwithstand- 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  89 

ing  the  earnest  wooing — as  the  years  went  on — of  more  than 
one  very  eligible  gentleman,  Brockhurst  continued  to  hold  it. 

Meanwhile  the  somewhat  quaint  fixed  star  around  which 
this  whole  system  of  planets,  large  and  small,  very  really  re- 
volved, shone  forth  upon  them  all  with  a  cheerful  enough  light. 
For  Dickie  by  no  means  belied  the  promise  of  his  babyhood. 
He  was  a  beautiful  and  healthy  little  boy,  with  a  charming 
brilliance  of  colouring,  warm  and  solid  in  tone.  He  had  his 
mother's  changeful  eyes,  though  the  blue  of  them  was  brighter 
than  hers  had  now  come  to  be.  He  had  her  dark  eyebrows 
and  eyelashes  too,  and  her  finely  curved  lips.  While  he  bore 
likeness  to  his  father  in  the  straight,  square-tipped  nose  and 
the  close-fitting  cap  of  bright,  brown  hair  with  golden  stains  in 
it,  growing  low  in  short  curling  locks  on  the  broad  forehead  and 
the  nape  of  the  neck — expressing  the  shape  of  the  head  very 
definitely,  and  giving  it  something  of  antique  nobility  and  grace. 

And  the  little  lad's  appearance  afforded,  in  these  pleasant 
early  days  at  all  events,  fair  index  to  his  temperament.  He  was 
gay-natured,  affectionate,  intelligent,  full  of  a  lively  yet  courteous 
curiosity,  easily  moved  to  laughter,  almost  inconveniently  fearless 
and  experimental ;  while  his  occasional  thunderbursts  of  passion 
cleared  off  quickly  into  sunshine  and  blue  sky  again.  For  as  yet 
the  burden  of  deformity  rested  upon  him  very  lightly.  He  asso- 
ciated hardly  at  all  with  other  children,  and  so  had  but  scant 
occasion  to  measure  his  poor  powers  of  locomotion  against  their 
normal  ones.  Lady  Fallowfeild  it  is  true,  in  obedience  to  sug- 
gestions on  the  part  of  her  kindly  lord  and  master,  offered 
tentatively  to  import  a  carriage-load — little  Ludovic  Quayle  was 
just  the  same  age  as  Dickie — from  the  Whitney  nurseries  to 
spend  the  day  at  Brockhurst. 

"  Good  fellow,  Calmady.  I  liked  Calmady,"  Lord  Fallow- 
feild had  said  to  her.  His  conversation,  it  may  be  observed, 
was  nothing  if  not  interjectional. — "Pretty  woman,  Lady  Cal- 
mady —  terrible  thing  for  her  being  left  as  she  is.  Always 
shall  regret  Calmady.  Very  sorry  for  her.  Always  have  been 
sorry  for  a  pretty  woman  in  trouble.  Ought  to  see  something 
of  her,  my  dear,  'i'he  two  estates  join,  and,  as  I  always  have 
said,  it's  a  duty  to  supjiort  your  own  class.  Can't  expect  the 
masses  to  respect  you  unless  you  sliow  them  you're  prepared  to 
stand  by  your  own  class.  Just  take  some  of  the  children  over  to 
see  Lady  Calmady.  Pretty  children,  do  her  good  to  see  them. 
Rode  uncommonly  straight  did  Calmady.  Terribly  upsetting 
thing  his  funeral.  Never  shall  forget  it.  Always  did  like 
Calmady — good  fellow,  Calmady.     Nasty  thing  his  death." 


90  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  Katherine's  pen  was  fertile  in  excuses  to  avoid  the 
invasion  from  Whitney.  Lady  Fallowfeild's  small  brains  and 
large  domestic  complacency  were  too  trying  to  her.  And  that 
noble  lady,  it  must  be  owned,  was  secretly  not  a  little  glad  to 
have  her  advances  thus  firmly,  though  gently,  repulsed.  For 
she  was  alarmed  at  I.ady  Caln^ady's  reported  acquaintance  with 
foreign  lands  and  with  books ;  added  to  which  her  simple  mind 
harboured  much  grisly  though  vague  terror  concerning  the  Roman 
Church.  Picture  all  her  brood  of  little  Quayles  incontinently 
converted  into  little  monks  and  nuns  with  shaven  heads  !  How 
such  sudden  conversion  could  be  accomplished  Lady  Fallowfeild 
did  not  presume  to  explain.  It  sufficed  her  that  "everybody 
always  said  Papists  were  so  dreadfully  clever  and  unscrupulous 
you  never  could  tell  what  they  might  not  do  next." 

Once,  when  Dickie  was  about  six  years  old,  Colonel  St. 
Quentin  brought  his  young  wife  and  two  little  girls  to  stay  at 
Brock  hurst.  Katherine  had  a  great  regard  for  her  cousin,  yet 
the  visit  was  never  repeated.  On  the  flat  poor  Dick  could 
manage  fairly  well,  his  strangely  shod  feet  travelling  laboriously 
along  in  effort  after  rapidity ;  his  hands  hastily  outstretched  now 
and  again  to  lay  hold  of  door-jamb  or  table-edge,  since  his 
balance  was  none  of  the  securest.  But  in  that  delightfully  varied 
journey  from  the  nursery,  by  way  of  his  mother's  bedroom,  the 
Chapel-Room  next  door,  the  broad  stair-head, — with  its  carven 
balusters,  shiny  oak  flooring,  and  fine  landscapes  by  Claude  and 
Hobbema, — the  state  drawing-room  and  libraries,  to  that  America 
of  his  childish  dreams,  that  country  of  magnificent  distances  and 
large  possibility  of  discovery,  the  Long  Gallery,  he  was  speedily 
distanced  by  the  three-year-old  Betty,  let  alone  her  six-year-old 
sister  Honoria,  a  tall,  slim,  little  maiden,  daintily  high-bred  of 
face  and  fleet  of  foot  as  a  hind.  This  was  bad  enough. 
But  the  stairways  afforded  yet  more  afflicting  experiences.  The 
descent  of  even  the  widest  and  shallowest  flights  presented 
matter  of  insuperable  difficulty,  while  the  ascent  was  only  to  be 
achieved  by  recourse  to  all-fours,  against  the  ignominy  of  which 
mode  of  progression  Dickie's  soul  revolted.  And  so  the  little 
boy  concluded  that  he  did  not  care  much  about  little  girls.  And 
confided  to  his  devoted  play-fellow  Clara— Mrs.  Denny's  niece 
and  sometime  second  still-room  maid,  now  promoted,  on  account 
of  her  many  engaging  qualities,  to  be  Dickie's  special  attendant — 
that  :— 

"  They  went  so  quick,  they  always  left  him  behind,  and  it 
was  not  nice  to  be  left  behind,  and  it  was  very  rude  of  them  to 
do  it ;  didn't  Clara  think  so  ?  " 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  91 

And  Clara,  as  in  duty  and  affection  bound,  not  without 
additional  testimony  in  a  certain  dimness  of  her  pretty,  honest, 
brown  eyes,  did  indeed  very  much  think  so.  It  followed,  there- 
fore, that  Dickie  saw  the  St.  Quentin  family  drive  away,  nurses 
and  luggage  complete,  quite  unmoved.  And  returned,  with  satis- 
faction and  renewed  self-confidence,  to  the  exclusive  society 
of  all  those  dear,  grown-up  people — gentle  and  simple— who 
were  never  guilty  of  leaving  him  behind — to  that  of  Camp, 
the  old,  white  bull-dog,  and  young  Camp,  his  son  and  heir, 
who,  if  they  so  far  forgot  themselves  as  to  run  away,  invariably 
ran  back  again  and  apologised,  fawning  upon  him  and  pushing 
their  broad,  ugly,  kindly  muzzles  into  his  hands — and  to  that 
of  Afo?tsieur  Fouf,  the  grey  Persian  cat,  who,  far  from  going  too 
quickly,  displayed  such  majestic  deliberation  of  movement  and 
admirable  dignity  of  waving  fluffed  tail,  that  it  required  much 
patient  coaxing  on  Dickie's  part  ever  to  make  him  leave  his 
cushion  by  the  fire  and  go  at  all. 

But,  with  the  above-mentioned  exception,  the  little  boy's 
self-content  suffered  but  slight  disturbance.  He  took  himself 
very  much  for  granted.  He  was  very  curious  of  outside  things, 
very  much  amused.  Moreover,  he  was  king  of  a  far  from  con- 
temptible kingdom  ;  and  in  the  blessed  ignorance  of  childhood 
— that  finds  pride  and  honour  in  things  which  a  wider  and 
sadder  knowledge  often  proves  far  from  glad  or  glorious — it 
appeared  to  him  not  unnatural  that  a  king  should  differ,  even 
to  the  point  of  some  slightly  impeding  disabilities,  from  the  rank 
and  file  of  his  obedient  and  devoted  subjects.  For  Dickie, 
happily  for  him,  was  as  yet  given  over  to  tliat  wholly  pleasant 
vanity,  the  aristocratic  idea.  The  rough  justice  of  democracy, 
and  the  harsh  breaking  of  all  purely  personal  and  individualistic 
dreams  that  comes  along  with  it,  for  him,  was  not  just  yet. 

And  Richard's  continued  and  undismayed  acquiescence  in 
his  physical  misfortune  was  fostered,  indirectly,  by  the  captivat- 
ing poetry  of  myth  and  legend  with  which  his  mind  was  fed. 
He  had  an  insatiable  appetite  for  stories,  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Mirancourt  was  an  untiring  racoittcusc.  On  Sunday  after- 
noons upon  the  terrace,  when  the  park  lay  bathed  in  drowsy 
sunshine  and  sapphire  shadows  haunted  the  under  edge  of 
the  great  woods,  the  pretty,  old  lady — her  eyes  shining  with 
gentle  laughter,  for  Marie  de  Mirancourt's  faith  had  reached 
the  very  perfect  stage  in  which  the  soul  dares  play,  even  as 
lovers  play,  with  that  it  holds  most  sacrud — would  tell  Dickie 
the  fairy  talcs  of  her  Church.  Would  tell  him  of  blessed  St. 
Francis  and  of  Poverty,  his  sweet,  sad  bride ;  of  his  sermon  to 


92  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  birds  dwelling  in  the  oak  groves  along  Tiber  valley  ;  of  the 
mystic  stigmata,  marking  as  with  nail-prints  his  hands  and  feet, 
and  of  that  indomitable  love  towards  all  creatures,  which  found, 
alike  in  the  sun  in  heaven  and  the  heavy-laden  ass,  brothers 
and  friends.  Or  she  would  tell  him  of  that  man  of  mighty 
strength  and  stature,  St.  Christopher,  who,  in  the  stormy 
darkness,  —  yielding  to  its  reiterated  entreaties, — set  forth  to 
bear  the  little  child  across  the  wind-swept  ford.  How  he 
staggered,  in  midstream,  amazed  and  terrified  under  the  awful 
weight  of  that,  apparently  so  light,  burden;  to  learn,  on 
struggling  ashore  at  last,  that  he  had  borne  upon  his  shoulder 
no  mortal  infant,  but  the  whole  world  and  the  eternal  maker 
of  it,   Christ  Himself. 

These  and  many  another  wonder  tale  of  Christian  miracle  did 
she  tell  to  Dickie — he  squatting  on  a  rug  beside  her,  resting  his 
curly  head  against  her  knees,  while  the  pink-footed  pigeons 
hurried  hither  and  thither,  picking  up  the  handfuls  of  barley  he 
scattered  on  the  flags,  and  the  peacocks  sunned  themselves  with 
a  certain  worldly  and  disdainful  grace  on  the  hand-rails  of  the 
grey  balustrades,  and  young  Camp,  after  some  wild  skirmish  in 
search  of  sport,  flung  himself  down  panting,  his  tongue  lolling 
out  of  his  grinning  jaws,  by  the  boy's  side. 

And  Katherine,  putting  aside  her  cares  as  regent  of  Dickie's 
kingdom  and  the  sorrow  that  lay  so  chill  against  her  heart, 
would  tell  him  stories  too,  but  of  a  different  order  of  sentiment 
and  of  thought.  For  Katherine  was  young  yet,  and  her  stories 
w^ere  gallant — since  her  own  spirit  was  very  brave — or  merry, 
because  it  delighted  her  to  hear  the  boy  laugh.  And  often,  as 
he  grew  a  little  older,  she  would  sit  with  her  arm  round  him,  in 
the  keen,  winter  twilights  before  the  lamps  were  lit,  on  the  broad, 
cushioned  bench  of  the  oriel  window  in  the  Chapel  -  Room. 
Outside,  the  stars  grew  in  number  and  brightness  as  the  dusk 
deepened.  Within,  the  firelight  played  over  the  white-panelled 
walls,  revealing  fitfully  the  handsome  faces  of  former  Calmadys 
— shortlived,  passing  hence  all  unsated  with  the  desperate  joys 
of  living  —  painted  by  Vandyke  and  Sir  Peter  Lely,  or  by 
Romney  and  Sir  Joshua.  Then  she  would  tell  him  not  only  of 
Aladdin,  of  Cinderella,  and  time-honoured  Puss-in-Boots,  but 
of  Merlin  the  great  enchanter,  and  of  King  Arthur  and  his 
company  of  noble  knights.  And  of  the  loves  of  Sigurd  the 
Niblung  and  Brunhilda  the  wise  and  terrible  queen,  and  of  their 
lifelong  sorrow,  and  of  the  fateful  treasure  of  fairy  gold  which 
lies  buried  beneath  the  rushing  waters  of  the  Rhine.  Or  she 
would  tell  him  of  those  cold,  clear,  far-off  times  in  the  northern 


1 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  93 

sojourning  places  of  our  race — tell  him  of  the  cow  Audhumla, 
alone  in  the  vast  plain  at  the  very  beginning  of  things,  licking 
the  stones  crusted  over  with  hoar  frost  and  salt,  till,  on  the  third 
day,  there  sprung  from  them  a  warrior  named  Bur,  the  father  of 
Bor,  the  father  of  Odin,  who  is  the  father  of  all  the  gods.  She 
would  tell  him  of  wicked  Loki  too,  the  deceiver  and  cunning 
plotter  against  the  peace  of  heaven.  And  of  his  three  evil 
children — here  Dickie  would,  for  what  reason  he  knew  not, 
always  feel  his  mother  hold  him  more  closely,  while  her  voice 
took  a  deeper  tone — Fenrir  the  wolf,  who,  when  Thor  sought  to 
bind  him,  bit  off  the  brave  god's  right  hand ;  and  Jormungand 
the  Midgard  serpent,  who,  tail  in  mouth,  circles  the  world ;  and 
Hela,  the  pale  queen,  who  reigns  in  Niflheim  over  the  dim 
kingdoms  of  the  dead.  And  of  Baldur  the  bright-shining  god, 
joy  of  Asgard,  slain  in  error  by  Hoder  his  blind  twin-brother, 
for  whom  all  things  on  earth — save  one — weep,  and  will  weep, 
till  in  the  last  days  he  comes  again.  And  of  All-Father  Odin 
himself,  plucking  out  his  right  eye  and  bartering  it  for  a  draught 
of  wisdom-giving  water  from  Mirmir's  magic  well.  Again,  she 
would  tell  him  of  the  End — which  it  must  be  owned  frightened 
Dickie  a  little,  so  that  he  would  stroke  her  cheek,  and  say  softly : 
— "But,  mummy,  you  really  are  sure,  aren't  you,  it  won't  happen 
for  a  good  while  yet  ?"- — Of  Ragnarok,  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods, 
of  the  Fimbul  winter,  and  cheerless  sun  and  hurrying,  blood-red 
moon,  and  all  the  direful  signs  which  must  needs  go  before  the 
last  great  battle  between  good  and  evil. 

And  through  all  of  these  stories,  of  Christian  and  heathen 
origin  alike,  Richard  began  dimly,  almost  unconsciously,  to  trace, 
recurrent  as  a  strain  of  austere  music,  the  idea — very  common 
to  ages  less  soft  and  fastidious  than  our  own — of  payment  in  self- 
restraint  and  labour,  or  in  actual  bodily  pain,  loss,  or  disable- 
ment, for  all  good  gained  and  knowledge  won. 

He  found  the  same  idea  again  when,  under  the  teaching  of 
Julius  March,  he  began  reading  history,  and  when  his  little  skill 
in  Greek  and  Latin  carried  him  as  far  as  the  easier  passages  of 
the  classic  poets.  Dick  was  a  very  apt,  if  somewhat  erratic  and 
inaccurate,  scholar.  His  insatiable  curiosity  drove  him  forward. 
He  scurried,  in  childish  fashion  by  all  short-cuts  available,  to 
get  at  the  heart  of  the  matter — a  habit  of  mind  detestable  to 
pedants,  since  to  them  the  letter  is  the  main  oI)jcct,  not  the 
spirit.  Ha[)[)ily  Julius  was  ceasing  to  be  a  pedant,  even  in 
matters  ecclesiastical.  He  loved  the  litllc  boy,  the  mingled 
charm  and  pathos  of  who.sc  personality  held  him  as  with  a  spell. 
With'  untiring  patience  he  answered,  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 


94  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Dickie's  endless  questions,  of  how  and  why.  And,  perhaps,  he 
learned  even  more  than  he  taught,  under  this  fire  of  cross- 
examination.  He  had  never  come  intimately  in  contact  with 
a  child's  mind  before ;  and  Dickie's  daring  speculations  and 
suggestions  opened  up  very  surprising  vistas  at  times.  The  boy 
was  a  born  adventurer,  a  gaily  audacious  sceptic  moreover, 
notwithstanding  his  large  swallow  for  romance,  until  his  own 
morsel  of  reason  and  sense  of  dramatic  fitness  were  satisfied. 

And  so,  having  once  apprehended  that  idea  of  payment,  he 
searched  for  justification  of  it  instinctively  in  all  he  saw  and 
read.  He  found  it  again  in  the  immortal  story  of  the  siege 
of  Troy,  and  in  the  long  wanderings  and  manifold  trials  of 
that  most  experimental  of  philosophers,  the  great  Ulysses.  He 
found  it  too  in  more  modern  and  more  authentic  history — in  the 
lives  of  Galileo  and  Columbus,  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  many 
another  hero  and  heroine,  of  whom,  because  of  some  unusual 
excellence  of  spirit  or  attainment,  their  fellow-men,  and,  as  it 
would  seem,  the  very  gods  themselves,  have  grown  jealous,  not 
enduring  to  witness  a  beauty  rivalling  or  surpassing  their  own. 

The  idea  was  all  confused  as  yet,  coloured  by  childish 
fancies,  instinctive  merely,  not  realised.  Yet  it  occupied  a  very 
actual  place  in  the  little  boy's  mind.  He  lingered  over  it 
silently,  caressing  it,  returning  to  it  again  and  again  in  half- 
frightened  delight.  It  lent  a  fascination,  somewhat  morbid 
perhaps,  to  all  ill-favoured  and  unsightly  creatures — to  blind- 
worms  and  slow-moving  toads,  to  trapped  cats,  and  dusty,  dis- 
abled, winter  flies;  to  a  winged  sea-gull,  property  of  Bushnell, 
one  of  the  under-gardeners,  that  paced,  picking  up  loathsome 
living  in  the  matter  of  slugs  and  snails,  about  the  cabbage  beds, 
all  the  tragedy  of  its  lost  power  of  flight  and  of  the  freedom  of 
the  sea  in  its  wild,  pale  eyes. 

It  further  provoked  Dickie  to  expend  his  not  incon- 
siderable gift  of  draughtsmanship  in  the  production  of  long 
processions  of  half-human  monsters  of  a  grotesque  and  essentially 
uncomfortable  character.  He  scribbled  these  upon  all  avail- 
able pieces  of  paper,  including  the  fly-leaves  of  Todhunter's 
Arithmetic,  and  of  his  Latin  and  Greek  primers.  In  an  evil 
hour,  for  the  tidiness  of  his  school  books,  he  came  across 
the  ballad  of  "  Aiken-Drum,"  with  its  rather  terrible  mixture 
of  humour,  realism,  and  pathos.  From  thenceforth  for 
some  weeks  —  though  he  adroitly  avoided  giving  any  direct 
account  of  the  origin  of  these  grisly,  imaginative  freaks — many 
margins  were  adorned,  or  rather  defaced,  by  fancy  portraits  of 
that  "foul  and  stalwart  ghaist"  the  Brownie  of  Badnock. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  95 

So  did  Dickie  dwell,  through  all  his  childhood  and  the  early- 
years  of  youth,  in  the  dear  land  of  dreams,  petted,  considered, 
sheltered  with  perhaps  almost  cruel  kindness,  from  the  keen 
winds  of  truth  that  blow  forever  across  the  world.  Which  winds, 
while  causing  all  to  suffer,  and  bringing  death  to  the  weak  and 
fearful,  to  the  lovers  of  lies  and  the  makers  of  them,  go  in  the 
end  to  strengthen  the  strong  who  dare  face  them,  and  fortify 
these  in  the  acceptance  of  the  only  knowledge  really  worth 
having — namely  the  knowledge  that  romance  is  no  exclusive 
property  of  the  past,  or  eternal  life  of  the  future,  but  that  both 
these  are  here,  immediately  and  actually,  for  whoso  has  eyes  to 
see  and  courage  to  possess. 

The  fairest  dreams  are  true.     Yet  it  is  so  ordered  that  to    ? 
know  that  we  must  awake  from  them.     And  the  awakening  is   [ 
an   ugly  process  enough,  too  often.     When   Dickie  was  about   ; 
thirteen,    the   awakening    began   for   him.     It    came    in    time- 
honoured  forms — those  of  horses  and  of  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  II 

IX    WHICH    OrR    HERO    IMPROVES    HIS    ACQUAIXTANCE    WITH 
MAXV    THINGS HIMSELF    INCLUDED 

IT  came  about  in  this  wise.  Roger  Ormiston  was  expected 
at  Brockhurst,  after  an  absence  of  some  years.  He  had 
served  with  distinction  in  the  Sikh  war;  and  had  seen  fighting  on  the 
grand  scale  in  the  battles  of  Sobraon  and  Chillianwallah.  Later 
the  restless  genius  of  travel  had  taken  hold  on  him,  leading  him 
far  eastward  into  China,  and  northward  across  the  Himalayan 
snows.  He  had  dwelt  among  strange  peoples  and  looked  on 
strange  gods.  He  had  hunted  strange  beasts,  moreover,  and 
learnt  their  polity  and  their  ways.  He  had  seen  the  bewildering 
fecundity  of  nature  in  the  tropic  jungle,  and  her  barren  and 
terrible  beauty  in  the  out-stretch  of  the  naked  desert.  And  the 
thought  of  all  this  set  Dickie's  imagination  on  fire.  The  return 
of  Roger  Ormiston  was,  to  him,  as  the  return  of  the  mighty 
Ulysses  himself. 

For  a  change  was  coming  over  the  boy.  He  began  to  weary 
of  fable  and  cry  out  for  fact.  He  had  just  entered  his  fourteenth 
year.  He  was  growing  fast ;  and,  but  for  that  dwarfing  de- 
formity, would  have  been  unusually  tall,  graceful  and  well-propor- 
tioned.    Ikit  along  with  this  increase  of  stature  had  come  a  listless- 


96  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ness  and  languor  which  troubled  Lady  Calmady.  The  boy  was 
sweet-tempered  enough,  had  his  hours,  indeed,  of  overflowing  fun 
and  high  spirits.  Still  he  was  restless  and  tired  easily  of  each 
occupation  in  turn.  He  developed  a  disquieting  relish  for 
solitude.  And  took  to  camping-out  on  one  of  the  broad  window- 
seats  of  the  Long  Gallery,  in  company  with  volumes  of  Captain 
Cook's  and  Hakluyt's  voyages,  old-time  histories  of  sport  and 
natural  history  ;  not  to  mention  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  merry 
if  but  doubtfully  decent  pages  of  Geoffrey  Gambado.  And 
his  mother  noted,  not  without  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  that 
the  window-seat  which  in  his  solitary  moods  Dickie  most 
frequented  was  precisely  that  one  of  the  eastern  bay  which 
commanded — beyond  the  smooth,  green  expanse  and  red  walls 
of  the  troco-ground — a  good  view  of  the  grass  ride,  running 
parallel  with  the  lime  avenue,  along  which  the  horses  from  the 
racing-stables  were  taken  out  and  back,  morning  and  evening,  to 
the  galloping  ground.  Then  fears  began  to  assail  Katherine  that 
the  boy's  childhood,  the  content  and  repose  of  it,  were  nearly 
past.     Small  wonder  that  her  heart  should  sink  ! 

On  the  day  of  her  brother's  return,  Katherine,  after  rather 
anxious  search,  so  found  Richard.  He  was  standing  on  the 
book-strewn  window-seat.  He  had  pushed  open  the  tall  narrow 
casement  and  leaned  out.  The  April  afternoon  was  fitfully 
bright.  A  rainbow  spanned  the  landscape,  from  the  Long  Water 
in  the  valley  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  crowning  the  tableland. 
Here  and  there  showers  of  rain  fell,  showing  white  against  huge 
masses  of  purple  cloud  piled  up  along  the  horizon. 

And  as  Katherine  drew  near,  threading  her  way  carefully 
between  the  Chinese  cabinets,  oriental  jars,  and  many  quaint 
treasures  furnishing  the  end  of  the  great  room,  she  saw  that, 
along  the  grass  ride,  some  twenty  racehorses  came  streelling 
homeward  in  single  file — a  long  line  of  brown,  chestnut,  black, 
and  of  the  raw  yellows  and  scarlets  of  horse-clothing,  against 
the  delicate  green  of  springing  turf  and  opening  leaves.  Beside 
them,  clad  in  pepper-and-salt  mixture  breeches  and  gaiters 
complete,  Mr.  Chifney  pricked  forward  soberly  on  his  handsome 
grey  cob.  The  boys  called  to  one  another  now  and  then, 
admonished  a  fretful  horse  breaking  away  from  the  string.  One 
of  them  whistled  shrilly  a  few  bars  of  that  popular  but  un- 
distinguished tune — "  Pop  goes  the  weasel."  And  Richard 
craned  far  out,  steadying  himself  against  the  stone  mullion  on 
either  side  with  uplifted  hands,  heedless  alike  of  his  mother's 
presence  and  of  the  heavy  drops  of  rain  which  splattered  in  at 
the  open  casement. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  97 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,"'  Katherine  called,  in  swift  anxiety.  "  Be 
careful.     You  will  fall." 

She  came  close,  putting  her  arm  round  him. — "You  reckless 
darling,"  she  went  on;  "don't  you  see  how  dangerous  the  least 
slip  would  be  ?  " 

The  boy  stood  upright  and  looked  round  at  her.  His 
blue  eyes  were  alight.  All  the  fitful  brightness,  all  the  wistful 
charm,  of  the  April  evening  was  in  his  face. 

"  But  it's  the  only  place  where  I  can  see  them,  and  they're 
such  beauties,"  he  said.  "  And  I  want  to  see  them  so  much. 
You  know  we  always  miss  them  somehow,  mummy,  when  we  go 
out." 

Katherine  was  off  her  guard.  Three  separate  strains  of  feeling 
influenced  her  just  then.  First,  her  growing  recognition  of  the 
change  in  Richard,  of  that  passing  away  of  childhood  which 
could  not  but  make  for  difficulty  and,  in  a  sense,  for  pain. 
Secondly,  the  natural  excitement  of  her  brother's  home-coming, 
disturbing  the  monotony  of  her  daily  life,  bringing,  along  with 
very  actual  joy,  memories  of  a  past,  well-beloved  yet  gone 
beyond  recall.  Lastly,  the  practical  and  immediate  fear  that  Dickie 
had  come  uncommonly  near  tumbling  incontinently  out  of  the 
window.  And  so,  being  moved,  she  held  the  boy  tightly  and 
answered  rather  at  random,  thereby  provoking  fate. 

"Yes,  my  dearest,  I  know  we  always  miss  them  somehow 
when  we  go  out.  It  is  best  so.  But  do  pray  be  more  careful 
with  these  high  windows." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  all  right — I'm  careful  enough." — His  glance  had 
gone  back  to  where  the  last  of  the  horses  passed  out  of  sight 
behind  the  red  wall  of  the  gardens.  "  But  why  is  it  best  so  ? 
Ah  !  they're  gone  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

Katherine  sat  down  on  the  window-seat,  and  Richard,  cling- 
ing to  the  window-ledge,  while  she  still  held  him,  lowered  him- 
self into  a  sitting  position  beside  her. 

"Thank  you,  mummy,"  he  said.  And  the  words  cut  her. 
They  came  so  often  in  each  day,  and  always  with  the  same  little 
touch  of  civil  dignity.  The  courtesy  of  Richard's  recognition  of 
help  given,  failed  to  comfort  her  for  the  fact  that  help  was  so 
constantly  required.  Lady  Calmady's  sense  of  rebellion  arose 
and  waxed  strong  whenever  she  heard  those  thanks. 

"  Mother,"  he  went  on,  "  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  You 
won't  mind?" 

"Do  I  ever  mind  you  questioning  me  ? "  Yet  she  felt  a 
certain  tightening  about  her  heart. 

"Ah,  but  this  is  different!     I've  wanted  to  for  a  long  while, 

7 


p8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

but  I  did  not  know  if  I  ought — and  yet  I  did  not  quite  like  to 
ask  Auntie  Marie  or  Julius.  And,  of  course,  one  doesn't  speak 
to  the  servants  about  anything  of  that  sort." 

Richard's  curly  head  went  up  with  a  fine,  little  air  of  pride  as 
he  said  the  last  few  words.  His  mother  smiled  at  him.  There 
was  no  doubt  as  to  her  son's  breeding. 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  want  to  know — you're  sure  you  don't  mind — why  you 
dislike  the  horses,  and  never  go  to  the  stables  or  take  me  there  ? 
If  the  horses  are  wrong,  why  do  we  keep  them  ?  And  if  they're 
not  wrong,  why,  mother,  don't  you  see,  we  may  enjoy  them, 
mayn't  we?" 

He  flushed,  looking  up  at  her,  spoke  coaxingly,  merrily,  a 
trifle  embarrassed  by  his  own  temerity,  yet  keen  to  prove  his 
point  and  acquire  possession  of  this  so  coveted  joy. 

Katherine  hesitated.  She  was  tempted  to  put  aside  his 
question  with  some  playful  excuse.  And  yet,  where  was  the 
use?  The  question  must  inevitably  be  answered  one  day,  and 
Katherine,  as  had  been  said,  was  moved  just  now,  dumbness 
of  long  habit  somewhat  melted.  Perhaps  this  was  the  appointed 
time.  She  drew  her  arm  from  around  the  boy  and  took  both 
his  hands  in  hers. 

"My  dearest,"  she  said,  "our  keeping  the  horses  is  not 
wrong.     But — one  of  the  horses  killed  your  father." 

Richard's  lips  parted.     His  eyes  searched  hers. 

"  But  how?"  he  asked  presently. 

"  He  was  trying  it  at  a  fence,  and  it  came  down  with  him — 
and  trampled  him." 

There  was  a  pause.  At  last  the  boy  asked  rather  breath- 
lessly:— "Was  he  killed  then,  mother,  at  once?" 

It  had  been  Katherine's  intention  to  state  the  facts  simply, 
gravely,  and  without  emotion.  But  to  speak  of  these  things, 
after  so  long  silence,  proved  more  trying  than  she  had  antici- 
pated. The  scene  in  the  red  drawing-room,  the  long  agony  of 
waiting  and  of  farewell,  rose  up  before  her  after  all  these  years 
with  a  vividness  and  poignancy  that  refused  to  be  gainsaid. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "he  lived  four  days.  He  spoke  to 
me  of  many  things  he  wished  to  do.  And — I  have  done  them 
all,  I  think.  He  spoke  to  me  of  you" —  Katherine  closed  her 
eyes.  "The  boy  might  care  for  the  stables.  The  boy  must 
ride  straight."  For  the  moment  she  could  not  look  at  Richard, 
knowing  that  which  she  must  see.  The  irony  of  those  re- 
membered words  appeared  too  great. — "But  he  suffered,"  she 
went  on  brokenly,  "he  suffered — ah!  my  dear" — 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS 


99 


"Mummy,  darling  mummy,  don't  look  like  that!"  Dickie 
cried.  He  wrenched  his  hands  from  her  grasp  and  threw  his 
arms  impulsively  about  her  neck.  "  Don't— it  hurts  me.  And 
— and,  after  all,"  he  added,  reasoningly,  consolingly,  "it  wasn't 
one  of  these  horses  you  know.  They've  never  done  anybody 
any  harm.  It  was  an  accident.  There  must  always  be 
accidents  sometimes,  mustn't  there?  And  then,  you  see,  it  all 
happened  long,  long  ago.  It  must  have,  for  I  don't  remember 
anything  about  it.     It  must  have  happened  when  I  was  a  baby." 

"  Alas,  no  ! "  Katherine  exclaimed,  wrung  by  the  pathos  of 
his  innocent  egoism;  "it  happened  even  before  then,  my 
dearest,  before  you  were  born." 

With  the  unconscious  arrogance  of  childhood,  Richard  had, 
so  far,  taken  his  mother's  devotion  very  much  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  had  never  doubted  that  he  was,  and  always 
had  been,  the  inevitable  centre  of  all  her  interests.  So,  now, 
her  words  and  her  bearing,  bringing — in  as  far  as  he  grasped 
them — the  revelation  of  aspects  of  her  life  quite  independent 
of  his  all-important,  little  self,  staggered  him.  For  the  first  time 
poor  Dickie  realised  that  even  one's  own  mother,  be  she  never 
so  devoted,  is  not  her  child's  exclusive  and  wholly  private 
property,  but  has  a  separate  existence,  joys  and  sorrows  apart. 
Instinctively  he  took  his  arms  from  about  her  neck  and  backed 
away  into  the  angle  of  the  window-seat,  regarding  her  with 
serious  and  somewhat  startled  attention.  And,  doing  so,  he 
for  the  first  time  realised  consciously  something  more,  namely 
the  greatness  of  her  beauty. 

For  the  years  had  dealt  kindly  with  Katherine  Calmady. 
Not  the  great  sorrows  of  life,  or  its  great  sacrifices,  but  fretful- 
ness,  ignoble  worries,  sordid  cares,  are  that  which  draw  lines 
upon  a  woman's  face  and  harshen  her  features.  At  six  and 
thirty  Lady  Calmady's  skin  was  smooth  and  delicate,  her  colour 
still  clear  and  softly  bright.  Her  hair,  though  somewhat  darker 
than  of  old,  was  abundant.  Still  she  wore  it  rolled  uj)  and  back 
from  her  forehead,  showing  the  perfect  oval  of  her  face.  Her 
eyes,  too,  were  darker  ;  and  ■the  expression  of  them  had  become 
profound — the  eyes  of  one  who  has  looked  on  things  which  may 
not  be  told  and  has  chosen  her  part.  Her  bosom  had  become 
a  little  fuller;  but  the  long,  inward  curve  of  her  figure  below  it 
to  the  round  and  shapely  waist,  and  tiie  poise  of  her  rather 
small  hi[js,  were  lithe  and  free  as  ever.  While  there  was  that 
enchanting  freshness  about  her  whi*  h  is  more  than  the  mere 
freshness  of  youth  or  of  physical  health — which  would  seem, 
indeed,  to  be  the  peculiar  dowry  of  those  women  wlio,  having 


lOO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

once  known  love  in  all  its  completeness  and  its  strength,  of 
choice  live  ever  afterwards  in  perfect  chastity  of  act  and 
thought. 

And  a  perception  not  only  of  the  grace  of  her  person,  as  she 
sat  sideways  on  the  window-seat  in  her  close-fitting,  grey  gown, 
with  its  frilled  lace  collar  and  ruffles  at  the  wrists,  came  to 
Richard  now.  He  perceived  something  of  this  more  intimate 
and  subtle  charm  which  belonged  to  her.  He  was  enthralled 
by  the  clear  sweetness,  as  of  dewy  grass  newly  turned  by  the 
scythe,  which  always  clung  about  her,  and  by  the  whispering 
of  her  silken  garments  when  she  moved.  A  sudden  reverence 
for  her  came  upon  him,  as  though,  behind  her  gracious  and  so 
familiar  figure,  he  apprehended  that  which  belonged  to  a  region 
superior,  almost  divine.  And  then  he  was  seized — it  is  too  often 
the  fate  of  worshippers — with  jealousy  of  that  past  of  hers 
of  which  he  had  been,  until  now,  ignorant.  And  yet  another 
emotion  shook  him,  for,  in  thus  realising  and  differentiating  her 
personality,  he  had  grown  vividly,  almost  painfully,  conscious 
of  his  own. 

He  turned  away,  laying  his  cheek  against  the  stone  window- 
ledge,  while  the  drops  of  a  passing  scud  of  rain  beat  in  on  his 
hot  face. 

"  Then — then  my  father  never  saw  me,"  he  exclaimed 
veheniently.  And,  after  a  moment's  pause,  added : — "  I  am 
glad  of  that — very  glad." 

"  Ah  !  But,  my  dearest,"  Lady  Calmady  cried,  bewildered 
and  aghast,   "you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying^think  ! " 

Richard  kept  his  face  to  the  splashing  rain. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  wrong;  but,"  he  repeated,  "I 
am  glad." 

He  turned  to  her,  his  lips  quivering  a  little,  and  a  desolate 
expression  in  his  eyes,  which  told  Katherine,  with  only  too 
bitter  assurance,  that  his  childhood  and  the  repose  of  it  were 
indeed  over  and  gone. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him  in  silent  invitation,  and  drew 
the  dear  curly  head  on  to  her  bosom. 

"You're  not  displeased  with  me,  mummy?" 

"  Does  this  seem  as  if  I  was  displeased  ?  "  she  asked. 

Then  they  sat  silent  once  more,  Katherine  swaying  a  little 
as  she  held  him,  soothing  him  almost  as  in  his  baby  days. 

"  I  won't  lean  out  of  the  window  again,"  he  said  presently, 
with  a  sigh  of  comfort.     "  I  promise  that." 

"  There's  a  darling.  But  I  am  afraid  we  must  go.  Uncle 
Roger  will  be  here  soon." 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  loi 

The  boy  raised  his  head. 

"Mother,"  he  said  quickly,  "will  you  send  Clara,  please,  to 
put  away  these  books  ?  And  may  I  have  Winter  to  fetch  me  ? 
I— I'm  tired.     If  you  don't  mind  ?     I  don't  care  to  walk." 

Yet,  since  happily  at  thirteen  Richard's  moods  were  still  as 
many  and  changeful  as  the  aspects  of  that  same  April  day,  he 
enjoyed  some  royally  unclouded  hours  before  he— most  un- 
willingly— retired  to  bed  that  night.  For,  on  close  acquaintance, 
the  great  Ulysses  proved  a  very  satisfactory  hero.  Roger 
Ormiston's  character  had  consolidated.  It  was  to  some  purpose 
that  he  had  put  away  the  pleasant  follies  of  his  youth.  He 
looked  out  now  with  a  coolness  and  patience,  born  of  wide 
experience,  upon  men  and  upon  affairs.  He  had  ceased  to 
lose  either  his  temper  or  his  head.  Acquiescing  with  un- 
dismayed and  cheerful  common  sense  in  the  fact  that  life,  as 
we  know  it,  is  but  a  sorry  business,  and  that  rough  things  must 
of  necessity  be  done  and  suffered  every  day,  he  had  developed 
an  active — though  far  from  morbidly  sentimental — compassion 
for  the  individual,  man  and  beast  alike.  Not  that  Colonel 
Ormiston  formulated  all  that,  still  less  held  forth  upon  it.  He 
was  content,  as  is  so  many  another  Englishman,  to  be  a  dumb 
and  practical  philosopher — for  which  those  who  have  lived  with 
philosophers  of  the  eloquent  sort  will  unquestionably  give 
thanks,  knowing,  to  their  sorrow,  how  often  handsome  speech 
is  but  a  cloak  to  hide  incapacity  of  honest  doing. 

And  so,  after  dinner,  under  plea  of  an  imperative  need  of 
cigars,  Ormiston  had  borne  Dickie  off  to  the  Gun-Room  ;  and 
there,  in  the  intervals  of  questioning  him  a  little  about  his 
tastes  and  occupations,  had  told  him  stories  many  and  great. 
For  he  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  boy  and  judge  of  what  stuff 
he  was  made.  Like  all  sound  and  healthy-minded  men  he  had 
an  inherent  suspicion  of  the  abnormal.  He  could  not  but 
fear  that  persons  unusually  constituted  in  body  must  be  the 
victims  of  some  corresponding  crookedness  of  spirit.  But  as 
the  evening  drew  on  he  became  easy  on  this  point.  Whatever 
Richard's  physical  infirmity,  his  nature  was  wholesome  enough. 
Therefore  when,  at  close  ujjon  ten  o'clock.  Lady  Calmady  arrived 
in  person  to  insist  that  Dickie  must  go,  there  and  then,  straight 
to  bed,  she  found  a  pleasant  scene  awaiting  her. 

The  srjuare  room  was  gay  with  lanipliglit  and  firelight, 
which  brought  into  strong  relief  the  pictures  of  famous  horses 
and  trophies  of  oUl-time  wea[)ons — matchlocks,  basket-handled 
swords,  and  neat,  silvcr-hiltcd  rapiers,  prettiest  of  toys  with  which 
to  pink  your  man — that  decorated  its  white-panelled  walls. 


102  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Ormiston  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  one  heel  on  the 
fender,  his  broad  shoulders  resting  against  the  high  chimney- 
piece,  his  head  bent  forward  as  he  looked  down,  in  steady  yet 
kindly  scrutiny,  at  the  boy.  His  face  was  tanned  by  the  sun 
and  wind  of  the  long  sea  voyage — people  still  came  home  from 
India  by  the  Cape — till  his  hair  and  moustache  showed  pale 
against  his  bronzed  skin.  And  to  Richard,  listening  and  watch- 
ing from  the  deep  arm-chair  drawn  up  at  right  angles  to  the 
hearth,  he  appeared  as  a  veritable  demigod,  master  of  the 
secrets  of  life  and  death — beheld,  moreover,  through  an  atmos- 
phere of  fragrant  tobacco  -  smoke,  curiously  intoxicating  to 
unaccustomed  nostrils.  Dickie  had  tucked  himself  into  as 
small  a  space  as  possible,  to  make  room  for  young  Camp,  who 
lay  outstretched  beside  him.  The  bull-dog's  great  underhung 
jaw  and  pendulous,  wrinkled  cheeks  rested  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  as  he  stared  and  blinked  rather  sullenly  at  the  fire — moved 
and  choked  a  little,  slipping  off  unwillingly  to  sleep,  to  wake 
with  a  start,  and  stare  and  blink  once  more.  The  embroidered 
couvre-pieds,  which  Dickie  had  spread  across  him  gathering  the 
top  edge  of  it  up  under  the  front  of  his  Eton  jacket,  offered 
luxurious  bedding.  But  Camp  was  a  typical  conservative,  slow- 
witted,  stubborn  against  the  ingress  of  a  new  idea.  This  tall, 
somewhat  masterful  stranger  must  prove  himself  a  good  man 
and  true — according  to  bull-dog  understanding  of  those  terms — 
before  he  could  hope  to  gain  entrance  to  that  faithful,  though 
narrow  heart. 

Ormiston  meanwhile,  finely  contemptuous  of  canine  criticism, 
greeted  his  sister  cheerily. 

"You're  bound  to  give  us  a  little  law  to-night,  Kitty,"  he 
said,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her.  "  We  won't  break  rules  and 
indulge  in  unbridled  license  as  to  late  hours  again,  will  we, 
Dick  ?  But,  you  see,  we've  both  been  doing  a  good  deal,  one 
way  and  another,  since  we  last  met,  and  there  were  arrears  of 
conversation  to  make  up." — He  smiled  very  charmingly  at  Lady 
Calmady,  and  his  fingers  closed  firmly  on  her  hand. — "We've 
been  getting  on  famously,  notwithstanding  our  long  separation." 
He  looked  down  at  Richard  again. — "Fast  friends,  already,  and 
mean  to  remain  so,  don't  we,  old  chap  ?  " 

Thereupon  Lady  Calmady's  soul  received  much  comfort. 
Her  pride  was  always  on  the  alert,  fiercely  sensitive  concerning 
Richard.  And  the  joy  of  this  meeting  had,  till  now,  an  edge  of 
jealous  anxiety  to  it.  If  Roger  did  not  take  to  the  boy,  then — 
deeply  though  she  loved  him — Roger  must  go.  For  the  same 
elements  were  constant   in    Katherine   Calmady.     Not  all  the 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  103 

discipline  of  thirteen  years  had  tamed  the  hot  blood  in  her  which 
made  her  order  out  the  Clown  for  execution.  But  as  Ormiston 
spoke,  her'  face  softened,  her  eyes  grew  luminous  and  smiled 
back  at  him  with  an  exquisite  gladness.  The  soft  gloom  of  her 
black,  velvet  dress  emphasised  the  warm,  golden  whiteness  of 
her  bare  shoulders  and  arms.  Ormiston  seeing  her  just  then, 
understanding  something  of  the  drama  of  her  thought,  was 
moved  from  his  habitual  cool  indifference  of  bearing. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  you  take  one  rather 
by  surprise  ?     Upon  my  word  you're  more  beautiful  than  ever." 

And  Richard's  clear  voice  rang  out  eagerly  from  the  depths 
of  the  big  chair : — 

"Yes — yes — isn't  she,  Uncle  Roger — isn't  she — delicious?" 

The  man's  smile  broadened  almost  to  laughter. 

"You  young  monkey,"  he  said  very  gently;  "so  you  have 
discovered  that  fact  already  have  you  ?  Well,  so  much  the 
better.  It's  a  safe  basis  to  start  from ;  don't  you  think  so, 
Kitty?" 

But  Lady  Calmady  drew  away  her  hand.  The  blood  had 
rushed  into  her  face  and  neck.  Her  beauty,  now  for  so  long, 
had  seemed  a  negligible  quantity,  a  thing  that  had  out-lasted 
its  need  and  use — since  he  who  had  so  rejoiced  in  it  was  dead. 
What  is  the  value  of  ever  so  royal  a  crown  when  the  throne  it 
represents  has  fallen  to  ruin  ?  And  yet,  being  very  much  a 
woman,  those  words  of  praise  came  altogether  sweetly  to 
Katherine  from  the  lips  of  her  brother  and  her  son.  She  moved 
away,  embarrassed,  not  quite  mistress  of  herself,  sat  down  on 
the  arm  of  Richard's  chair,  leaned  across  him  and  patted  the 
bull-dog — who  raised  his  heavy  head  with  a  grunt,  and  slapped 
Dickie  smartly  in  the  stomach  with  his  tail,  by  way  of  welcome. 

"You  dear  foolish  creatures,"  she  said,  "pray  talk  of  some- 
. thing  more  profitable.  I  am  growing  old,  and,  in  some  ways,  I 
am  rather  thankful  for  it.  All  the  same,  Dickie,  darling,  you 
positively  must  and  shall  go  to  bed." 

I'ut  Colonel  Ormiston  interrupted  her.  He  spoke  with  a 
trace  of  hesitation,  turning  to  the  fireplace  and  flicking  the  ash 
off  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"  By  the  bye,  Katherine,  how's  Mary  Cathcart  ?  Have  you 
seen  her  lately  ?  " 

"  Yes,  last  week." 

"Then  she's  not  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  and  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  Lady  Calmady  answered.  She  bent  a  little  lower, 
tracing  out  the  lines  on  the  dog's  wrinkled  forehead  with  her 
finger. — "  Several  men  have   asked   her  to  marry.     But  there 


104  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

is  only  one  man  in  the  world,  I  fancy,  whom  Mary  would  ever 
care  to  marry — poor  Camp,  did  I  tickle  you? — and  he,  I 
believe,  has  not  asked  her  yet." 

"Ah!  there,"  Ormiston  exclaimed  quickly,  "you  arc  mis- 
taken." 

"Am  I?"  Katherine  said.  "I  have  great  faith  in  Mary.  I 
suppose  she  was  too  wise  to  accept  even  him,  being  not  wholly 
convinced  of  his  love." 

Lady  Calmady  raised  her  eyes.  Ormiston  looked  very  keenly 
at  her.  And  Richard,  watching  them,  felt  his  breath  come  rather 
short  with  excitement,  for  he  understood  that  his  mother  was 
speaking  in  riddles.  He  observed,  moreover,  that  Colonel 
Ormiston's  face  had  grown  pale  for  all  its  sunburn. 

"And  so,"  Katherine  went  on,  "  I  think  the  man  in  question 
had  better  be  quite  sure  of  his  own  heart  before  he  offers  it  to 
Mary  Cathcart  again." 

Ormiston  flung  his  half- smoked  cigar  into  the  fire.  He 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  Richard. 

"Look  here,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  say  to  our 
driving  over  to  Newlands  to-morrow?  You  can  set  me  right 
if  I've  forgotten  any  of  the  turns  in  the  road,  you  know.  And 
you  and  Miss  Cathcart  are  great  chums,  aren't  you?" 

"  Mother,  may  I  go  ?  "  the  boy  asked. 

Lady  Calmady  kissed  his  forehead. 

"Yes,  my  dearest,"  she  said.  "I  will  trust  you  and  Uncle 
Roger  to  take  care  of  each  other  for  once.     You  may  go." 

The  immediate  consequence  of  all  which  was,  that  Richard 
went  to  bed  that  night  with  a  brain  rather  dangerously  active 
and  eyes  rather  dangerously  bright.  So  that  when  sleep  at  last 
visited  him,  it  came  burdened  with  dreams,  in  which  the  many 
impressions  and  emotions  of  the  day  took  altogether  too  lively  a 
part,  causing  him  to  turn  restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  throw  his 
arms  out  wide  over  the  cool,  linen  sheets  and  pillow. 

For  there  was  a  new  element  in  Dickie's  dreams  to-night — 
namely  a  recurrent  distress  of  helplessness  and  incapacity  of 
movement,  and  therefore  of  escape,  in  the  presence  of  some 
on-coming,  multitudinous  terror.  He  was  haunted,  moreover,  by 
a  certain  stanza  of  the  ballad  of  Chevy  Chase.  It  had  given  him 
a  peculiar  feeling,  sickening  yet  fascinating,  ever  since  he  could 
remember  first  to  have  read  it,  a  feeling  which  caused  him  to 
dread  reading  it  beforehand,  yet  made  him  turn  back  to  it  again 
and  again.  And,  to-night,  sometimes  Richard  was  himself,  some- 
times his  personality  seemed  merged  in  that  of  Witherington,  the 
crippled  fighting-man,  of  whose  maiming,  and  deadly  courage, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  105 

that  stanza  tells.  And  the  battle  was  long  and  fierce,  as,  from 
out  a  background  of  steeple-shaped,  honey-combed  rocks  and 
sparse  trees  with  large,  golden  leaves — like  those  on  the  panels 
of  the  great,  lacquered  cabinets  in  the  Long  Gallery — innumerable 
hordes  of  fanatic  Chinamen  poured  down  on  him,  a  hideous 
bedizenment  of  vermilion  war-devils  painted  on  their  blue  tunics 
and  banners  and  shields.  And  he,  Richard, — or  was  it  he, 
Witherington  ?  —  alone  facing  them  all,  —  they  countless  in 
number,  always  changing  yet  always  the  same.  From  under 
their  hard,  upturned  hats,  a  peacock  feather  erect  in  each, 
the  cruel,  oblique-eyed,  impassive  faces  stared  at  him.  They 
pressed  him  back  and  back  against  the  base  of  a  seven-storied 
pagoda,  the  wind-bells  of  which  jangled  far  above  him  from  the 
angles  of  its  tiers  of  fluted  roofs.  And  the  sky  was  black  and 
polished.  Yet  it  was  broad,  glaring  daylight,  every  object  fear- 
fully distinct.  And  he  was  fixed  there,  unable  to  get  away 
because — yes,  of  course,  he  was  Witherington,  so  there  was  no 
need  of  further  explanation  of  that  inability  of  escape. 

And  still,  at  the  same  time,  he  could  see  Chifney  on  the 
handsome,  grey  cob,  trotting  soberly  along  the  green  ride,  beside 
the  long  string  of  racehorses  coming  home  from  exercise.  The 
young  leaves  were  fragile  and  green  now,  not  sparse  and  metallic, 
and  the  April  rain  splashed  in  his  face.  He  tried  to  call  out  to 
Tom  Chifney,  but  the  words  died  in  his  throat. — If  they  would 
only  put  him  on  one  of  those  horses  !  He  knew  he  could  ride, 
and  so  be  safe  and  free.  He  called  again.  That  time  his  voice 
came.  They  must  hear.  Were  they  not  his  own  servants,  after 
all,  and  his  own  horses — or  would  be  soon,  when  he  was  grown 
up?  liut  neither  the  trainer,  nor  the  boys  so  much  as  turned 
their  heads  ;  and  the  living  ribbon  of  brown  and  chestnut  swept 
on  and  away  out  of  sight.  No  one  would  heed  him  !  No  one 
would  hearken  to  his  cry  ! 

Once  his  mother  and  some  man,  whom  he  knew  yet  did  not 
know,  passed  by  him  hand  in  hand.  She  wore  a  white  dress, 
and  smiled  with  a  look  of  ineffable  content.  Tier  compnnion 
was  tall,  gracious  in  bearing  and  movement,  but  unsubstantial,  a 
luminous  shadow  merely.  Richard  could  not  see  his  face.  Yet 
he  knew  the  man  was  of  near  kin  to  him.  And  to  them  he  tried 
to  speak.  But  it  was  useless.  For  now  he  was  not  Richard  any 
more.  Ho  was  not  even  Witherington,  the  crippled  fighting-man 
of  the  Chevy  Chase  ballad.  He  was— he  was  the  winged  sea- 
gull, with  wild,  pale  eyes,  hifling— abject  yet  fierce—  among  the 
vegetable  beds  in  the  Hrockhurst  kitchen-gardens,  and  picking 
up  loathsome  provender  of  snails  and  slugs.     Roger  Ormiston, 


io6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

calm,  able,  kindly,  yet  just  a  trifle  insolent,  cigar  in  mouth, 
sauntered  up  and  looked  at  the  bird,  and  it  crawled  away  among 
the  cabbages  ignominiously,  covered  with  the  shame  of  its 
incompleteness  and  its  fallen  estate. 

And  then  from  out  the  honey-combed  rocks,  under  the  black, 
polished  sky,  the  blue  -  tunicked  Chinamen  swejit  down  on 
Richard  again  with  the  maddening  horror  of  infinite  number. 
They  crushed  in  upon  him,  nearer  and  nearer,  pressing  him  back 
against  the  wall  of  that  evil  pagoda.  The  air  was  hot  and  musky 
with  their  breath  and  thick  with  the  muffled  roar  of  their  count- 
less footsteps.  And  they  came  right  in  on  him,  trampling  him 
down,  suffocating,  choking  him  with  the  heat  of  them  and  the 
dead  weight. 

Shouting  aloud — as  it  seemed  to  him — in  angry  terror,  the 
boy  woke.  He  sat  up  trembling,  wet  with  perspiration,  be- 
wildered, by  the  struggle  and  the  wild  phantasmagoria  of  his 
dream.  He  pulled  open  the  neck  of  his  night-shirt,  leaned  his 
head  against  the  cool,  brass  rail  of  the  back  of  the  bedstead,  while 
he  listened  with  growing  relief  to  the  rumble  of  the  wind  in  the 
chimney,  and  the  swish  of  the  rain  against  the  casements,  and 
watched  the  narrow  line  of  light  under  the  door  of  his  mother's 
room. 

Yes,  he  was  Richard  Calmady,  after  all, — here  in  his  own 
sheltered  world,  among  those  who  had  loved  and  served  him  all 
his  life.  Nothing  hurtful  could  reach  him  here,  nothing  of  which 
he  need  be  afraid.  There  was  no  real  meaning  in  that  ugly 
dream. 

And  then  Dickie  paused  a  moment,  still  sitting  up  in  the 
warm  darkness,  pressing  his  hands  down  on  the  mattress  on 
either  side  to  keep  himself  from  slipping.  For  involuntarily  he 
recalled  the  feeling  which  had  prompted  his  declaration  that  he 
was  glad  his  father  had  never  seen  him ;  recalled  his  unwilling- 
ness to  walk,  lest  he  should  meet  Ormiston  unexpectedly  ;  recalled 
the  instinct  which,  even  during  that  glorious  time  in  the  Gun- 
Room,  had  impelled  him  to  keep  the  embroidered  couvre-pieds 
carefully  over  his  legs  and  feet.  And,  recalling  these  things,  poor 
Dickie  arrived  at  conclusions  regarding  himself  which  he  had 
happily  avoided  arriving  at  before.  For  they  were  harsh  con- 
clusions, causing  him  to  cower  down  in  the  bed,  and  bury  his 
face  in  the  pillows  to  stifle  the  sound  of  the  tearing  sobs  which 
would  come. 

Alas  !  was  there  not  only  too  real  a  meaning  in  that  same 
ugly  dream  and  that  shifting  of  personality?  He  understood, 
while  his  body  auivered  with  the  anguish  of  it,  that  he  had  more 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  107 

in  common  with,  and  was  nearer — far  nearer — to  the  maimed 
fighting-man  of  the  old  ballad,  even  to  the  poor  sea-gull  robbed 
of  its  power  of  flight,  than  to  all  those  dear  people  whose  business 
in  life  it  seemed  to  pet  and  amuse  him,  and  to  minister  to  his 
every  want — to  the  handsome  soldier  uncle,  whose  home-coming 
had  so  excited  him,  to  Julius  March,  his  indulgent  tutor,  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  his  delightful  companion,  to  Clara, 
his  obedient  playfellow,  to  brown-eyed  Mary  Cathcart,  and  even 
to  his  lovely  mother  herself! 

Thus  did  the  bitter  winds  of  truth,  which  blow  forever  across 
the  world,  first  touch  Richard  Calmady,  cutting  his  poor  boyish 
pride  as  with  a  whip.  But  he  was  very  young.  And  the  young, 
mercifully,  know  no  such  word  as  the  inevitable ;  so  that  the 
wind  of  truth  is  ever  tempered  for  them — the  first  smart  of  it 
over — by  the  sunshine  of  ignorant  and  unlimited  hope. 


CHAPTER  III 

CONCERNING    THAT   WHICH,    THANK    GOD,    HAPPENS    ALMOST 

EVERY    DAY 

THE  merry,  spring  sky  was  clear,  save  in  the  south  where  a 
vast  perspective  of  dappled  cloud  lay  against  it,  leaving 
winding  rivers  of  blue  here  and  there,  as  does  ribbed  sand  for 
the  incoming  tide.  As  the  white  gate  of  the  inner  park — the 
grey,  unpainted  palings  ranging  far  away  to  right  and  left — swung 
to  behind  them,  and  Henry,  the  groom,  after  a  smart  run, 
clambered  up  into  his  place  again  beside  Camp  on  the  back 
seat  of  the  double  dog-cart,  Richard's  spirits  rose.  Ahead 
stretched  out  the  long  vista  of  that  peculiar  glory  of  Brockhurst, 
its  avenue  of  Scotch  firs.  The  trunks  of  them,  rough-barked 
and  purple  below,  red,  smooth,  and  glistering  above,  shot  up 
some  thirty  odd  feet — straight  as  the  pillars  of  an  ancient  temple 
— before  the  branches,  sweeping  outward  and  downward,  met, 
making  a  whispering,  living  canopy  overhead,  through  which  the 
sunshine  fell  in  tremulous  shafts  upon  the  shining  coats  and 
gleaming  harness  of  the  horses,  upon  Ormiston's  clear-cut, 
bronzed  face  and  upright  figure,  and  upon  the  even,  straw- 
coloured  gravel  of  the  road.  The  said  road  is  raised  by  about  three 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  land  on  cither  side.  On  the  left,  the 
self-sown  firs  grow  in  close  ranks.  The  ground  below  them  is 
bare  but  for  tussocks  of  coarse  grass  and  ruddy  beds  of  fallen  fir 


io8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

needles.  On  the  right,  the  fir  wood  is  broken  by  coppices 
of  silver-stemmed  birches,  and  spaces  of  heather — which  shows  a 
purple-brown  against  the  grey  of  the  reindeer  moss  out  of  which 
it  springs.  Tits  swung  and  frolicked  among  the  tree-tops,  and  a 
jay  flew  off  noisily  with  a  flash  of  azure  wing-coverts  and  volley 
of  harsh,  discordant  cries. 

The  rapid  movement,  the  moist,  pungent  odour  of  the  wood- 
land, the  rhythmical  trot  of  the  horses,  the  rattle  of  the  splinter- 
bar  chains  as  the  traces  slackened  going  downhill,  above  all  the 
presence  of  the  man  beside  him,  were  pleasantly  stimulating  to 
Richard  Calmady.  The  boy  was  still  a  prey  to  much  innocent  en- 
thusiasm. It  appeared  to  him,  watching  Ormiston's  handling  of 
the  reins  and  whip,  there  was  nothing  this  man  could  not  do,  and 
do  skilfully,  yet  all  with  the  same  easy  unconcern.  Indeed  the 
present  position  was  so  agreeable  to  him  that  Dickie's  spirits 
would  have  risen  to  an  unusual  height,  but  for  a  certain  chasten- 
ing of  the  flesh  in  the  shape  of  the  occasional  pressure  of  a  broad 
strap  against  his  middle,  which  brought  him  unwelcome  remem- 
brance of  recent  discoveries  it  was  his  earnest  desire  to  ignore, 
stiil  better  to  forget. 

For  just  at  starting  there  had  been  a  rather  bad  moment. 
Winter,  having  settled  him  on  the  seat  of  the  dog-cart,  was  pre- 
paring to  tuck  him  in  with  many  rugs,  when  Ormiston  said  : — 

"  Look  here,  dear  old  chap,  I've  been  thinking  about  this, 
and  upon  my  word  you  don't  seem  to  me  very  safe.  You  see 
this  is  a  diff"erent  matter  to  your  donkey-chair,  or  the  pony- 
carriage.  There's  no  protection  at  the  side,  and  if  the  horses 
shied  or  anything — well,  you'd  be  in  the  road.  And  I  can't 
afford  to  spill  you  the  first  time  we  go  out  together,  or  there'd  be 
a  speedy  end  of  all  our  fun." 

Richard  tried  to  emulate  his  uncle's  cool  indifference,  and 
take  the  broad  strap  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  he  was  glad  the 
tongue  of  the  buckle  slipped  so  directly  into  place ;  and  that 
Henry's  attention  was  engaged  with  the  near  horse,  which  fretted 
at  standing ;  and  that  Leonard,  the  footman,  was  busy  making 
Camp  jump  up  at  the  back ;  and  that  his  mother,  who  had  been 
^Yatching  him  from  the  lowest  of  the  wide  steps,  turned  away  and 
went  up  to  the  flight  to  join  Julius  March  stnnding  under  the 
grey  arcade.  As  the  horses  sprang  forward,  clattering  the 
little  pebbles  of  the  drive  against  the  body  of  the  carriage, 
and  swung  away  round  the  angle  of  the  house,  Katherine 
came  swiftly  down  the  steps  again  smiling,  kissing  her  hand  to 
him.  Still,  the  strap  hurt — not  poor  Dickie's  somewhat  ill- 
balanced  body,  to  which  in  truth  it  lent  an  acreeable  sense  of 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  109 

security,  but  his,  just  then,  all  too  sensitive  mind.  So  that, 
notwithstanding  a  fine  assumption  of  gaiety,  as  he  kissed  his 
hand  in  return,  he  found  the  dear  vision  of  his  mother  some- 
what blurred  by  foohsh  tears  which  he  had  resolutely  to  wink 
away. 

But  now  that  disquieting  incident  was  left  nearly  ten  minutes 
behind.  The  last  park  gate  and  its  cluster  of  mellow -tinted, 
thatched  cottages  was  past.  Not  only  out-of-doors  and  all  the 
natural  exhilaration  of  it,  but  the  spectacle  of  the  world  beyond 
the  precincts  of  the  park — into  which  world  he,  in  point  of  fact, 
so  rarely  penetrated — wooed  him  to  interest  and  enjoyment. 
To  Dickie,  whose  life  through  his  mother's  jealous  tenderness 
and  his  own  physical  infirmity  had  been  so  singularly  circum- 
scribed, there  was  an  element,  slightly  pathetic,  of  discovery  and 
adventure  in  this  ordinary,  afternoon  drive. 

He  did  not  want  to  talk.  He  was  too  busy  simply  seeing — 
everything  food  for  those  young  eyes  and  brain  so  greedy  of 
incident  and  of  beauty.  He  sat  upright  and  stared  at  the  pass- 
ing show. — At  the  deep  lane,  its  banks  starred  with  primroses 
growing  in  the  hollows  of  the  gnarled  roots  of  oaks  and  ash  trees. 
At  Sandyfield  rectory,  deep-roofed,  bow-windowed,  the  red  walls 
and  tiles  of  it  half  smothered  in  ivy  and  cotoneaster.  At  the 
low,  squat -towered,  Georgian  church,  standing  in  its  acre  of 
close-packed  graveyard,  which  is  shadowed  by  yew  trees  and  by 
the  clump  of  three  enormous  Scotch  firs  in  the  rectory  garden 
adjoining.  At  the  Church  Farm,  just  beyond — a  square  white 
house,  the  slated  roofs  of  it  running  up  steeply  to  a  central 
block  of  chimneys,  it  having,  in  consequence,  somewhat  the 
effect  of  a  monster  extinguisher.  At  the  rows  of  pale,  wheat 
stacks,  raised  on  granite  staddles ;  at  the  prosperous  barns, 
yards,  and  stables,  built  of  wood  on  brick  foundations,  that 
surround  it,  presenting  a  mass  of  rich,  solid  colour  and  of  noisy, 
crowded,  animal  life.  At  the  fields,  plough  and  pasture,  marked 
out  by  long  lines  of  hedgerow  trees,  broken  by  coppices — these 
dashed  with  tenderest  green — stretching  up  and  back  to  the 
dark,  purple-blue  range  of  the  moorland.  At  scattered  cottages, 
over  the  gates  of  whose  gardens  gay  with  daffodils  and  polyanthus, 
groups  of  little  girls  and  babies,  in  nojiping  sun- bonnets  and 
scanty  lilac  pinafores,  stared  back  at  the  passing  carriage,  and 
then  bobbed  the  accustomed  curtsey.  In  the  said  groups  were 
no  boys,  save  of  infant  years.  'J'he  boys  were  away  shepherding, 
or  to  plough,  or  bird-minding.  For  as  yet  education  was  free 
indeed — in  the  sense  that  you  were  free  to  take  it,  or  leave  it,  as 
suited  your  pocket  and  your  fancy. 


no  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  stared  too  at  the  pleasant,  furze-dotted  commons, 
spinning  away  to  right  and  left  as  the  horses  trotted  sharply 
onward — commons  whereon  meditative  donkeys  endured  rather 
than  enjoyed  existence,  after  the  manner  of  their  kind;  and 
prodigiously  large  families  of  yellow-grey  goslings  streeled  after 
the  flocks  of  white  geese,  across  spaces  of  fresh  sprung  grass 
around  shallow  ponds,  in  which  the  blue  and  dapple  of  the  sky 
were  reflected.  He  stared  at  Sandyfield  village  too— a  straight 
street  of  detached  houses,  very  diverse  in  colour  and  in  shape, 
standing  back,  for  the  most  part,  amid  small  orchards  and 
gardens  that  slope  gently  up  from  the  brook,  which  last,  backed, 
here  by  a  row  of  fine  elms,  there  by  one  of  Lombardy  poplars, 
borders  the  road.  Three  or  four  shops,  modest  in  size  as  they 
are  ambitious  in  the  variety  of  objects  ofi"ered  for  sale  in  them, 
advance  their  windows  boldly.  So  does  the  yellow-washed  inn, 
the  Calmady  arms  displayed  upon  its  swinging  sign-board.  A 
rniller's  tented  waggon,  all  powdery  with  flour,  and  its  team  of 
six  horses,  brave  with  brass  harness  and  bells,  a  timber-carriage, 
and  a  couple  of  spring-carts,  were  drawn  up  on  the  half-moon 
of  gravel  before  the  porch ;  while,  from  out  the  open  door, 
came  a  sound  of  voices  and  odour  of  many  pipes  and  much 
stale  beer. 

And  Richard  had  uninterrupted  leisure  to  bestow  on  all 
this  seeing,  for  his  companion,  Colonel  Ormiston,  was  pre- 
occupied and  silent.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  down  at  the 
boy  as  though  suddenly  remembering  his  presence  and  inquired 
if  he  was  "all  right."  But  it  was  not  until  they  had  crossed 
the  long,  white-railed  bridge,  at  the  end  of  Sandyfield  street 
— which  spans  not  only  the  little,  brown  river  overhung  by 
black-stemmed  alders,  but  a  bit  of  marsh,  reminiscent  of  the 
ancient  ford,  lush  with  water  -  grasses,  beds  of  king-cups, 
and  broad-leaved  docks — not  until  then,  did  Colonel  Ormiston 
make  sustained  effort  at  conversation.  Beyond  the  bridge 
the  road  forks. 

"  Left  to  Newlands,  isn't  it?"  he  asked  sharply. 

Then,  as  the  carriage  swept  round  the  turn,  he  woke  up  from 
his  long  reverie,  waking  Richard  up  also,  from  his  long  dream 
of  mere  seeing,  to  human  drama  but  dimly  apprehended  close 
there  at  his  side. 

"  Oh,  well,  well ! "  the  man  exclaimed,  throwing  back  his 
head  in  sharp  impatience,  as  a  horse  will  against  the  restraint  of 
the  bearing-rein.  He  raised  his  eyebrows,  while  his  lips  set  in  a 
smile  the  reverse  of  gay.  Then  he  looked  down  at  Richard 
again,  an  unwonted  softness  in  his  expression. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  in 

"  Been  happy  ?  "  he  said.  "  Enjoyed  your  drive  ?  That's 
right.  You  understand  the  art  of  being  really  good  company, 
Dick." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Allowing  other  people  to  be  just  as  bad  company  as  they 
like." 

"  I — I  don't  see  how  you  could  be  bad  company,"  Dickie 
said,  flushing  at  the  audacity  of  his  little  compUment. 

"  Don't  you,  dear  old  chap  ?  Well,  that's  very  nice  of  you. 
All  the  same  I  find,  at  times,  I  can  be  precious  bad  company 
to  myself." 

"Oh  !  but  I  don't  see  how,"  the  boy  argued,  his  enthusiasm 
protesting  against  all  possibility  of  default  in  the  object  of  it. 
Richard  wanted  to  keep  his  hands  down, — unconsciousness,  if 
only  assumed,  told  for  personal  dignity, — but,  in  the  agitation  of 
protest,  spite  of  himself,  he  laid  hold  of  the  top  edge  of  that 
same  chastening  strap.  "  It  must  be  so  awfully  jolly  to  be  like 
you — able  to  do  everything  and  go  everywhere.  There  must  be 
such  a  lot  to  think  about." 

The  softness  was  still  upon  Ormiston's  face. — "Such  a 
lot?"  he  said.  "A  jolly  lot  too  much,  believe  me,  very  often, 
Dick." 

He  looked  away  up  the  copse-bordered  road,  over  the  ears 
of  the  trotting  horses. 

"  You've  read  the  story  of  Blue  Beard  and  that  unpleasant 
locked-up  room  of  his,  where  the  poor,  little  wives  hung  all  of  a 
row?  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  Dick,  most  men  when  they  come 
to  my  age  have  a  room  of  that  sort.  It's  an  inhospitable  place. 
One  doesn't  invite  one's  friends  to  dine  and  smoke  there.  At 
least  no  gentleman  does.  I've  met  one  or  two  persons  who  set 
the  door  open  and  rather  gloried  in  inviting  inspection — but 
they  were  blackguards  and  cads.  They  don't  count.  Still  each 
of  us  is  obliged  to  go  in  there  sometimes  himself.  I  tell  you  it's 
anything  but  lively.     I've  been  in  there  just  now." 

The  dappled  cloud  creeping  upward  from  the  southern 
horizon  veiled  the  sun,  the  light  of  which  grew  j)ale  and  thin. 
The  scent  of  the  larch  wood,  on  the  right,  hung  in  the  air. 
Richard's  eyes  were  wide  with  inrjuiry.  His  mind  suffered 
growing -pains,  as  young  minds  of  any  intellectual  and  poetic 
worth  needs  must.  The  possibility  of  moral  experience,  in- 
calculable in  extent  as  that  golden-grey  outspread  of  creeping, 
increasing  vapour  overhead,  pnsentcd  itself  to  him.  The  vast- 
ness  of  life  touched  him  to  fear.  He  struggled  to  find  a  limit, 
clothing  his  effort  in  childish  realism  of  statement. 


112  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  But  in  that  locked-up  room,  Uncle  Roger,  you  can't  have 
dead  women — dead  wives  ?  " 
Ormiston  laughed  quietly. 

"  You  hit  out  pretty  straight  from  the  shoulder.  Master  Dick," 
he  said.  "  Happily  I  can  reassure  you  on  one  point.  All 
manner  of  things  are  hung  up  in  there— some  ugly — almost  all 
ugly  now,  to  my  eyes,  though  some  of  them  had  charming  ways 
with  them  once  upon  a  time.  But,  I  give  you  my  word,  neither 
ugly  nor  charming,  dead  nor  alive,  are  there  any  wives." 

The  boy  considered  a  moment,  then  said  stoutly : — "  I 
wouldn't  go  in  there  again.  I'd  lock  the  door  and  throw  away 
the  key." 

"  Wait  till  your  time  comes  !  You'll  fmd  that  is  precisely 
what  you  can't  do." 

"Then  I'd  fetch  them  out,  once  and  for  all,  and  bury  them." 
The  carriage  had  turned  in  at  the  lodge  gate.    Soon  a  long,  low, 
white  house  and  range  of  domed  conservatories  came  into  view. 

"  Heroic  remedies  ! "  Ormiston  remarked,  amused  at  the 
boy's  vehemence.  "  But  no  doubt  they  do  succeed  now  and 
then.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Dick,  I  have  been  thinking  of 
something  of  the  kind  myself.  Only  I'm  afraid  I  shall  need 
somebody  to  help  me  in  carrying  out  so  extensive  a  funeral." 
"Anybody  would  be  glad  enough  to  help  you,"  Richard 
declared,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"Ah  !  but  the  bother  is  anybody  can't  help  one.  Only  one 
person  in  all  this  great  rough  and  tumble  of  a  world  can  really 
help  one.  And  often  one  finds  out  who  that  person  is  a  little 
bit  too  late.  However,  here  we  are.  Perhaps  we  shall  know 
more  about  it  all  in  the  next  half-hour,  if  these  good  people  are 
at  home." 

In  point  of  fact  the  good  people  in  question  were  not  at 
home.  Ormiston,  holding  reins  and  whip  in  one  hand,  felt  for 
his  card-case. 

"So  we've  had  our  journey  for  nothing  you  see,  Dick," 
he  said. 

And  to  Richard  the  words  sounded  regretful.  Moreover, 
the  drama  of  this  expedition  seemed  to  him  shorn  of  its  climax. 
He  knew  there  should  be  something  more,  and  pushed  for  it. 

"You  haven't  asked  for  Mary,"  he  said.  "And  I  thought 
we  came  on  purpose  to  see  Mary.  She  won't  like  us  to  go 
away  like  this.     Do  ask." 

Colonel  Ormiston's  expression  altered,  hardened.  And 
Richard,  in  his  present  hypersensitive  state,  remembered  the 
cool  scrutiny  bestowed  on  the  winged  sea-gull  of  his  dream  last 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  113 

night.  This  man  had  seemed  so  near  him  just  now  while  they 
talked.  Suddenly  he  became  remote  again,  all  understanding 
of  him  shut  away  by  that  slight  insolence  of  bearing.  Still  he 
did  as  Richard  prayed  him.  Miss  Cathcart  was  at  home.  She 
had  just  come  in  from  riding. 

"  Tell  her  Sir  Richard  Calmady  is  here,  and  would  like,  if  he 
may,  to  see  her." 

^^"ithout  waiting  for  a  reply,  Ormiston  unbuckled  that  same 
chastening  strap  silently,  quickly.  He  got  down  and,  coming 
round  to  the  farther  side  of  the  carriage,  lifted  Richard  out ; 
while  Camp,  who  had  jumped  off  the  back  seat,  stood  yawning, 
whining  a  little,  shaking  his  heavy  head  and  wagging  his  tail  in 
welcome  on  the  doorstep.  With  the  bull-dog  close  at  his  heels, 
Ormiston  carried  the  boy  into  the  house. 

The  inner  doors  were  open,  and,  up  the  long,  narrow, 
pleasantly  fresh-tinted  drawing-room,  Mary  Cathcart  came  to 
meet  them.  The  folds  of  her  habit  were  gathered  up  in  one 
hand.  In  the  other  she  carried  a  bunch  of  long-stalked,  yellow 
and  scarlet  tulips.  Her  strong,  supple  figure  stood  out  against 
the  young  green  of  the  lawns  and  shrubberies,  seen  through  the 
French  windows  behind  her.  She  walked  carefully,  with  a 
certain  deliberation,  thanks  to  her  narrow  habit  and  top-boots. 
The  young  lady  carried  her  thirty-one  years  bravely.  Her 
irregular  features  and  large  mouth  had  always  been  open  to 
criticism.  But  her  teeth,  when  her  lips  parted,  were  white  and 
even,  and  her  brown  eyes  frankly  honest  as  ever. 

"Why,  Dickie  dear,  it  is  simply  glorious  to  have  you  and 
Camp  paying  visits  on  your  own  account." — Her  speech  broke 
into  a  little  cry,  while  her  fingers  closed  so  tightly  on  the 
tulips  that  the  brittle  stalks  snapped,  and  the  gay-coloured 
bells  of  them  hung  limply,  some  falling  on  to  the  carpet  aljout 
her  feet.  "  Roger — Colonel  Ormiston — I  didn't  know  you 
were  home  —  were  here  !  "  —  Her  voice  was  uncontrollably 
glad. 

Still  carrying  the  boy,  Ormiston  stood  before  her,  observing 
her  keenly.  But  he  was  no  longer  remote.  His  insolence, 
which,  after  all,  may  have  been  chiefly  self-protective,  had 
vanished. 

"I'm  very  sorry — I  mean  for  those  poor  tulips.  I  came  to 
I)ay  my  respects  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  not  finding 
them  was  preparing  to  drive  humbly  liome  again.  But" — 
Certainly  she  carried  her  years  well.  She  looked  absurdly 
young.  The  brown  and  rose-red  of  her  com{)lexion  was  clear 
as  that  of  the  little  maiden  who  had  fought  with,  and  over- 
8 


114  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

come,  and  kissed  the  rough,  Welsh  pony  refusing  the  grip  by 
the  roadside  long  ago.  The  hint  of  a  moustache  emphasised  the 
upturned  corners  of  her  mouth — but  that  was  rather  captivating. 
Her  eyes  danced,  under  eyelids  which  fluttered  for  the  moment. 
She  was  not  beautiful,  not  a  woman  to  make  men  run  mad. 
Yet  the  comeliness  of  her  body,  and  the  spirit  to  which  that 
body  served  as  index,  was  so  unmistakably  healthful,  so  sincere, 
that  surely  no  sane  man,  once  gathering  her  into  his  arms,  need 
ask  a  better  blessing. — "But,"  Ormiston  went  on,  still  watching 
her,  "nothing  would  satisfy  Dick  but  he  must  see  you.  With 
many  injunctions  regarding  his  safety,  Katherine  made  him  over 
to  me  for  the  afternoon.  I'm  on  duty,  you  see.  Where  he 
goes,  I'm  bound  to  go  also — even  to  the  destruction  of  your 
poor  tulips." 

Miss  Cathcart  made  no  direct  answer. 

"  Sit  here,  Dickie,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  sofa. 

"  But  you  don't  really  mind  our  coming  in,  do  you  ? "  he 
asked,  rather  anxiously. 

The  young  lady  placed  herself  beside  him,  drew  his  hand  on 
to  her  knee,  patted  it  gently. 

"Mind?  No  ;  on  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I  do  mind  very 
much.  In  fact,  I  think  I  should  probably  have  minded  very 
much  more  if  you  had  gone  away  without  asking  for  me." 

"There,  I  told  you  so.  Uncle  Roger,"  the  boy  said 
triumphantly.  Camp  had  jumped  up  on  to  the  sofa  too.  He 
put  his  arm  comfortably  round  the  dog's  neck.  It  was  as  well 
to  acquire  support  on  both  sides,  for  the  surface  of  the  glazed 
chintz  was  slippery,  inconveniently  unsustaining  to  his  equili- 
brium.— "It's  an  awfully  long  time  since  I've  seen  Mary,"  he 
continued,  "more  than  three  weeks." 

"Yes,  an  awfully  long  time,"  Ormiston  echoed,  "more  than 
six  years." 

"Dear  Dickie,"  she  said;  "how  pretty  of  you!  Do  you 
always  keep  count  of  my  visits?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  They  were  about  the  best  things  that 
ever  happened,  till  Uncle  Roger  came  home." 

Forgetting  herself,  Mary  Cathcart  raised  her  eyes  to  Ormiston's 
in  appeal.  The  boy's  little  declaration  stirred  all  the  latent 
motherhood  in  her.  His  fortunes  at  once  passed  so  very  far 
beyond,  and  fell  so  far  short  of,  the  ordinary  lot.  She 
wondered  whether,  and  could  not  but  trust  that,  this  old 
friend  and  new-comer  was  not  too  self-centred,  too  hardened 
by  ability  and  success,  to  appreciate  the  intimate  pathos  of  the 
position.     Ormiston  read  and  answered  her  thought. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  115 

"  Oh  !  we  are  going  to  do  something  to  change  all  that," 
he  said  confidently.  "  We  are  going  to  enlarge  our  borders  a 
bit,  aren't  we,  Dick?  Only,  I  think,  we  should  manage  matters 
much  better  if  Miss  Cathcart  would  help  us,  don't  you?" 

Richard  remembering  the  locked-up  room  of  evil  contents 
and  that  proposal  of  inclusive  funeral  rites,  gave  this  utterance 
a  wholly  individual  application.  His  face  grew  bright  with 
intelligence.  But,  greatly  restraining  himself,  he  refrained  from 
speech.  All  that  had  been  revealed  to  him  in  confidence,  and 
so  his  honour  was  engaged  to  silence. 

Ormiston  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  him, 
leaning  forward,  his  hands  clasped  about  one  knee,  while  he 
gazed  at  the  tulips  scattered  on  the  floor. 

"So  tell  Miss  Cathcart  we  all  want  her  to  come  over  to 
Brockhurst  just  as  often  as  she  can,"  he  continued,  "and  help 
us  to  make  the  wheels  go  round  a  little  faster.  Tell  her  we've 
grown  very  old,  and  discreet,  and  respectable,  and  that  we  are 
absolutely  incapable  of  doing  or  saying  anything  foolish  or 
naughty,  which  she  would  object  to— and" — 

But  Richard  could  restrain  himself  no  longer. — "Why  don't 
you  tell  her  yourself.  Uncle  Roger?" 

"  Because,  my  dear  old  chap,  a  burnt  child  fears  the  fire. 
I  tried  to  tell  Miss  Cathcart  something  once,  long  ago.  She 
mayn't  remember" — 

"She  does  remember,"  Mary  said  quietly,  looking  down  at 
Richard's  hand  and  patting  it  as  it  lay  on  her  lap. 

"  But  she  stopped  me  dead,"  Ormiston  went  on.  "  It  was 
quite  right  of  her.  She  gave  the  most  admirable  reasons  for 
stopping  me.     Would  you  care  to  hear  them  ?  " 

"Oh!  don't,  pray  don't,"  Mary  murmured.  "It  is  not 
generpus." 

"Pardon  me,  your  reasons  were  absolutely  just — true  in 
substance  and  in  fact.  You  said  T  was  a  selfish,  good-for- 
nothing  spendthrift,  and  so" — 

"I  was  odious,"  she  broke  in.  "I  was  a  self-righteous 
little  Pharisee — forgive  me" — 

"Why  — there's  nothing  to  forgive.     You  spoke  the  truth." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Richard  cried,  in  vehement  protest. 

"  Dickie,  you're  a  darling,"  Mary  Cathcart  said. 

Colonel  Ormiston  left  off  nursing  his  knee,  and  leaned  a 
little  farllicr  forward. 

"Well  thfn,  will  you  come  over  to  IJrockhurst  very  often, 
and  help  us  to  make  the  whcf-ls  go  round,  and  cheer  us  all  up, 
and  do  us  no  end  of  good,  though — I  am  a  selfish,  good-for- 


ii6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

nothing  sp)endthrift  ?  You  see  I  run  through  the  list  of  my 
titles  again  to  make  sure  this  transaction  is  fair  and  square  and 
above-board." 

A  silence  followed,  which  appeared  to  Richard  protracted  to 
the  point  of  agitation.  He  became  almost  distressingly  conscious 
of  the  man's  still,  bronzed,  resolute  face  on  the  one  hand,  of  the 
woman's  mobile,  vivid,  yet  efjually  resolute  face  on  the  other, 
divining  far  more  to  be  at  stake  than  he  had  clear  knowledge  of. 
Tired  and  excited,  his  impatience  touched  on  anger. 

"  Say  yes,  Mary,"  he  cried  impulsively,  "  say  yes.  I  don't  see 
how  anybody  can  want  to  refuse  Uncle  Roger  anything." 

Miss  Cathcart's  eyes  grew  moist.  She  turned  and  kissed  the 
boy. 

"  I  don't  think — perhaps — Dickie,  that  I  quite  see  either,"  she 
answered  very  gently. 

"  Mary,  you  know  what  you've  just  said  ?" — Ormiston's  tone 
was  stern.  "You  understand  this  little  comedy?  It  means 
business.     This  time  you've  got  to  go  the  whole  hog  or  none." 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  and  drew  her  breath  in  a  long 
half-laughing  sigh. 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  what  a  plague  of  a  hurry  you  are  in  ! "  she 
said.  "Well — then — then — I  suppose  I  must — it  is  hardly  a 
graceful  expression,  but  it  is  of  your  choosing,  not  of  mine — I 
suppose  I  must  go  the  whole  hog." 

Roger  Ormiston  rose,  treading  the  fallen  tulips  under  foot. 
And  Richard,  watching  him,  beheld  that  which  called  to  his  re- 
membrance, not  the  hopeless  and  impotent  battle  under  the  black, 
polished  sky  of  his  last  night's  dream,  but  the  gallant  stories  he 
had  heard,  earlier  last  night,  of  the  battles  of  Sobraon  and 
Chillianwallah,  of  the  swift  dangers  of  sport,  and  large  daring  of 
travel.  Here  he  beheld — so  it  seemed  to  his  boyish  thought — 
the  aspect  of  a  born  conqueror,  of  the  man  who  can  serve  and 
wait  long  for  the  good  he  desires,  and  who,  winning  it,  lays  hold  of 
it  with  fearless  might.  And  this,  while  causing  Richard  an  ex- 
quisite delight  of  admiration,  caused  him  also  a  longing  to  share 
those  splendid  powers  so  passionate  that  it  amounted  to  actual 
pain. 

Mary  Cathcart's  hand  slid  from  under  his  hand.  She  too  rjose 
to  her  feet. 

"Then  you  have  actually  cared  for  me  all  along,  all  these 
years?  "  Ormiston  declared  in  fierce  joy. 

"  Of  course — who  else  could  I  care  for  ?  And — and — you've 
loved  me,  Roger,  all  the  while  ?  " 

And  Ormiston  answered  "  Yes," — speaking  the  truth,  though 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  117 

with  a  difference.  There  had  been  interludes  that  had  con- 
tributed somewhat  freely  to  the  peopling  of  that  same  locked-up 
room.  But  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  love  many  times,  yet 
always  love  one  woman  best. 

All  this,  however,  Dickie  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  they 
dazzled  him — the  man  triumphantly  strong,  the  woman  so  bravely 
glad.  He  could  not  watch  them  any  longer.  He  went  hot  all 
over,  and  his  heart  beat.  He  felt  strangely  desolate  too.  They 
were  far  away  from  him,  in  thought,  though  so  close  by.  Dickie 
shut  his  eyes,  put  his  arms  round  the  bull-dog,  pressed  his  face 
hard  against  the  faithful  beast's  shoulder ;  while  Camp,  stretching 
his  short  neck  to  the  uttermost,  nuzzled  against  him  and  essayed 
to  lick  his  cheek. 

Thus  did  Richard  Calmady  gain  yet  further  knowledge  of 
things  as  they  are. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHICH    SMELLS    VERY    VILELY    OF    THE    STABLE 

APRIL  softened  into  May,  and  the  hawthorns  were  in  blossom 
before  Richard  passed  any  other  very  noteworthy  mile- 
stone on  the  road  of  personal  development.  Then,  greatly 
tempted,  he  committed  a  venial  sin  ;  received  prompt  and  coarse 
chastisement ;  and,  by  means  of  the  said  chastisement,  as  is 
the  merciful  way  of  the  Eternal  Justice,  found  unhoped  of 
emancipation. 

It  happened  thus.  As  the  spring  days  grew  warm  Made- 
moiselle de  Mirancourt  failed  somewhat.  The  darkness  and 
penetrating  chill  of  the  English  winter  tried  her,  and  this  year 
her  recuperative  powers  seemed  sadly  deficient.  A  fuller  tide  of 
life  had  pulsed  through  Brockhurst  since  Colonel  Ormiston's 
arrival.  The  old  stillness  was  dejjarting,  the  old  order  changing. 
With  that  change  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  had  no  (juarrel, 
since,  to  her  serene  faith,  all  that  came  must,  of  necessity,  come 
through  a  divine  ordering  and  in  conformity  to  a  divine  plan. 
Yet  this  more  of  activity  and  of  movement  strained  her.  The 
weekly  drive  over  to  Westchurch,  to  hear  mass  at  the  humble 
Catholic  chapel  tucked  away  in  a  side  street,  sorely  taxed  her 
strength.  She  returned  fortified,  her  soul  ravished  by  that 
heavenly  love,  which,  in  pure  and  innocent  natures,  bears  such 
gracious  kinship  to  earthly  love.     Yet  in  body  she  was  outworn 


I  IS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  weary.  On  such  occasions  she  would  rally  Julius  March, 
not  without  a  touch  of  malice,  saying  : — 

"  Ah  !  trcs  cher  ami,  had  you  only  followed  the  ever  blessed 
footsteps  of  those  dear  Oxford  friends  of  yours  and  entered  the 
fold  of  the  true  Church,  what  fatigue  might  you  not  now  spare 
me — let  alone  the  incalculable  advantages  to  your  own  poor, 
charming,  fatally  darkened  soul !  " 

While  Julius — who,  though  no  less  devout  than  of  yore,  was 
happily  less  fastidiously  sensitive — would  reply  : — 

"  But,  dearest  lady,  had  I  followed  the  footsteps  of  my  Oxford 
friends,  remember  I  should  not  be  at  Brockhurst  at  all." 

"  Clearly,  then,  everything  is  well  ordered,"  she  would  say, 
folding  her  fragile  hands  upon  her  embroidery  frame,  "since  it 
is  altogether  impossible  we  could  do  without  you.  Yet  I  regret 
for  your  soul.  It  is  so  capable  of  receiving  illumination.  You 
English — even  the  most  finished  among  you — remain  really  de- 
plorably stubborn,  and  nevertheless  it  is  my  fate  perpetually  to 
set  my  affections  upon  one  or  other  of  you." 

It  followed  that  Katherine  devoted  much  of  her  time  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  walked  slowly  beside  her  up  and 
down  the  sunny,  garden  paths  sheltered  by  the  high,  red  walls 
whereon  the  clematis  and  jasmine  began  to  show  for  flower;  or 
took  her  for  quiet,  little  drives  within  the  precincts  of  the  park. 
They  spoke  much  of  Lucia  St.  Quentin,  of  Katherine's  girlhood, 
and  of  those  pleasant  days  in  Paris  long  ago.  And  this  brought 
soothing  and  comfort,  not  only  to  the  old  lady,  but  to  the  young 
lady  also — and  of  soothing  and  comfort  the  latter  stood  in  need 
just  now. 

For  it  is  harsh  discipline  even  to  a  noble  woman,  whose  life 
is  still  strong  in  her,  to  stand  by  and  see  another  woman,  but  a 
few  years  her  junior,  entering  on  those  joys  which  she  has  lost — 
marriage,  probably  motherhood  as  well.  Roger  Ormiston  and 
Mary  Cathcart's  love-making  was  restrained  and  dignified.  But 
the  very  calm  of  their  attitude  implied  a  security  of  happiness 
passing  all  need  of  advertisement.  And  Katherine  was  very  far 
from  grudging  them  this.  She  was  not  envious,  still  less  jealous. 
She  did  not  want  to  take  anything  of  theirs ;  but  she  wanted,  she 
sorely  wanted,  her  own  again.  A  word,  a  look,  a  certain  quick- 
ness of  quiet  laughter,  would  pierce  her  with  recollection.  Once 
for  her  too,  below  the  commonplaces  of  daily  detail,  flowed  that 
same  magic  river  of  delight.  But  the  springs  of  it  had  gone  dry. 
Therefore  it  was  a  relief  to  be  alone  with  Mademoiselle  de 
Mirancourt — virgin  and  saint — and  to  speak  with  her  of  the  days 
before  she,  Katherine,  had  sounded  the  lovely  depths  of  that 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  119 

same  magic  flood — days  when  she  had  known  of  its  existence 
only  by  the  mirage,  born  of  the  dazzle  of  its  waters,  which  plays 
over  the  innocent,  vacant  spaces  of  a  young  girl's  mind. 

It  was  a  relief  even,  though  of  sterner  quality,  to  go  into  the 
red  drawing-room  on  the  ground  floor  and  pace  there,  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her,  her  proud  head  bowed,  by  the  half-hour 
together.  If  personal  joy  is  dead  past  resurrection,  there  is 
bitter  satisfaction  in  realising  to  the  full  personal  pain.  The 
room  was  duly  swept,  dusted,  casements  set  open  to  welcome 
breeze  and  sunshine,  fires  lighted  in  the  grate.  But  no  one  ever 
sat  there.  It  knew  no  cheerfulness  of  social  intercourse.  The 
crimson  curtains  and  covers  had  become  faded.  They  were  not 
renewed.  The  furniture,  save  for  the  absence  of  the  narrow  bed, 
stood  in  precisely  the  same  order  as  on  the  night  when  Sir 
Richard  Calmady  died.  It  was  pushed  back  against  the  walls. 
And  in  the  wide,  empty  way  between  the  two  doors,  Katherine 
paced,  saturating  all  her  being  with  thoughts  of  that  which  was, 
and  must  remain,  wholly  and  inalienably  her  own — namely  her 
immense  distress. 

And  in  this  she  took  the  more  comfort,  because  something 
else,  until  now  appearing  wholly  her  own,  was  slipping  a  little 
away  from  her.  Dickie's  health  had  improved  notably  in  the 
last  few  weeks.  His  listlessness  had  vanished,  while  his  cheeks 
showed  a  wholesome  warmth  of  colour.  But  his  cry  was  ever — 
"Mother,  Unde  Roger's  going  to  such  a  place.  He  says  he'll 
take  me.  I  can  go,  can't  I  ?  "  Or — "  Mother,  Mary's  going  to 
do  such  a  thing.  She  says  she'll  show  me  how.  She  may, 
mayn't  she?"  And  Katherine's  answer  was  always  "Yes."  She 
grudged  the  bo>  none  of  his  new -found  pleasures,  rejoiced 
indeed  to  see  hin  interested  and  gay.  Yet  to  watch  the  new 
broom,  which  sweeps  so  clean,  is  rarely  exhilarating  to  those 
that  have  swept  dilgently  with  the  old  one.  The  nest  had  held 
her  precious  fledging  so  safely  till  now,  and  this  fluttering  of 
wings,  eager  for  flight,  troubled  her  somewhat.  Not  only  was 
Dickie's  readiness  to  be  away  from  her  a  trifle  hard  to  bear  ;  but 
she  knew  that  disappintment,  of  a  certainty,  lay  in  wait  for  him, 
and  that  each  effort  towards  wider  action  would  but  reveal  to 
him  how  circumscribe]  his  powers  actually  were. 

Meanwhile,  howe\er,  Richard  enjoyed  liimsclf  recklessly, 
almost  feverishly,  in  th^  attempt  to  disprove  the  teaching  of  that 
ugly  dream,  and  keep  truth  at  bay.  'Ihere  had  been  further 
drives,  and  the  exritcmint  of  witnessing  a  forest  fire — only  too 
frequent  in  the  Brockhurst  country  wlien  the  sap  is  up,  and  the 
easterly  wind  and  May  stn  have  scorched  all  moisture  from  the 


I20  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

surface  of  the  moorland.  He  and  Mary  had  bumped  over  fir 
roots  and  scuttled  down  bridle-paths  in  the  pony-carriage,  to 
avoid  the  rush  of  flame  and  smoke ;  had  skirmished  round  at  a 
hand  gallop,  in  search  of  recruits  to  reinforce  Ormiston,  and  lies, 
and  a  small  army  of  beaters,  battling  against  the  blazing  line  that 
threatened  destruction  to  the  fir  avenue.  Now  and  again,  with 
a  mighty  roar,  which  sent  Dickie's  heart  into  his  mouth,  great 
tongues  of  flame,  clear  as  topaz  and  ruby  in  the  steady  sunshine, 
would  leap  upwards,  converting  a  whole  tall  fir  into  a  tree  of  fire, 
while  the  beaters  running  back,  grimed  with  smoke  and  sweat, 
took  a  moment's  breathing-space  in  the  open. 

There  had  been  more  peaceful  pastimes  as  well — several  days' 
fishing,  enchanting  beyond  the  power  of  language  to  describe. 
The   clear    trout-stream    meandering    through  the   rich   water- 
meadows  ;  the  herds  of  cattle  standing  knee-deep  in  the  grass, 
lazily  chewing  the  cud  and  switching  their  tails  at  the  cloud  of 
flies ;  the  birds  and  wild  creatures  haunting  the  streamside  ;  the 
long  dreamy  hours  of  gentle  sport,  had  opened  up  to  Dickie  a 
whole  new  world  of  romance.     His  donkey-chair  had  been  left 
at  the  yellow-washed  mill  beneath  the  grove  of  silvery-leaved, 
ever-rustling,  balsam  poplars.     And  thence,  while  Ormiston  and 
Mary  sauntered  slowly  on  ahead,  the  men  —  Winter  in  mufti, 
obhvious  of  plate-cleaning  and  cellarage,  and  the  onerous  duties 
of  his  high  estate,  Stamp,  the  water-bailiff,  and  Moorcock,  one 
of  the  under-keepers — had  carried  him  across  tlie  great,  green 
levels.     Winter  was  an  old  and  tried  friend,  and  it  was  somewhat 
diverting  to  behold  him  in  this  novel  aspect,  a.fable  and  chatty 
with  inferiors,  displaying,  moreover,  unexpected   knowledge   in 
the  mysteries  of  the  angler's  craft.     The  other  two  men — sharp- 
featured,  their  faces  ruddy  as  summer  apple?,  merry-eyed,  clad 
in  velveteen  coats,  that  bulged  about  the  pockets,  and  wrinkled 
leather  gaiters  reaching  half-way  up  the  thigh— charmed  Richard, 
when  his  first  shyness  was  passed.     They  were  eager  to  please 
him.     Their  talk  was  racy.     Their  laughter  ready  and  sincere. 
Did  not  Stamp  point  out  to  him  a  water-oizel,  with  impudently 
jerking  tail,  dipping  and  wading  in  the  shdlows  of  the  stream  ? 
Did  not  Moorcock  find  him  a  water-rail's  nest,  hidden  in  a  tuft 
of  reeds  and  grass,  with  ten,  yellowish,  speckled  eggs  in  it  ?     And 
did  not  both  men  pluck  him  handfuls  of  cowslips,  of  tawny-pink 
avens,  and  of  mottled,  snake-headed  fri:illarias,  and  stow  them 
away  in   the   fishing-baskets   above   the  load   of  silver-and-red 
spotted  trout  ? 

Mary  had  protested  Dickie  could  throw  a  fly,  if  he  had  a 
light  enough  rod.     And  not  only  did  le  throw  a  fly,  but  at  the 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  121 

fourth  or  fifth  cast  a  fish  rose,  and  he  played  it — with  skirling 
reel  and  much  advice  and  most  complimentary  excitement  on 
the  part  of  the  whole  good  company — and  brought  it  skilfully 
within  range  of  Stamp's  landing-net.  Never  surely  was  trout 
spawned  that  begot  such  bliss  in  the  heart  of  an  angler !  As, 
with  panting  sides  and  open  gills,  this  three -quarter -pound 
treasure  of  treasures  flopped  about  on  the  sunny  stream  bank  all 
the  hereditary  instinct  of  sport  spoke  up  clearly  in  Dickie.  The 
boy — such  is  youthful  masculine  human  nature — believed  he 
understood  at  last  why  the  world  was  made  !  At  dressing-time 
he  had  his  sacred  fish  carried  on  a  plate  up  to  his  room  to 
show  Clara ;  and,  but  for  strong  remonstrance  on  the  part  of 
that  devoted  handmaiden,  would  have  kept  it  by  his  bedside  all 
night,  so  as  to  assure  himself  at  intervals,  by  sense  of  touch — let 
alone  that  of  smell — of  the  adorable  fact  of  its  veritable  existence. 

But  all  this,  inspiring  though  it  was,  served  but  as  prelude  to 
a  more  profoundly  coveted  acquaintance — that  with  the  racing- 
stable.  For  it  was  after  this  last  that  Dickie  still  supremely 
longed — the  more  so,  it  is  to  be  feared,  because  it  was,  if  not 
explicitly,  yet  implicitly  forbidden.  A  spirit  of  defiance  had 
entej-ed  into  him.  Being  granted  the  inch,  he  was  disposed  to 
take  the  ell.  And  this,  not  in  conscious  opposition  to  his 
mother's  will ;  but  in  protest,  not  uncourageous,  against  the 
limitations  imposed  on  him  by  physical  misfortune.  The  boy's 
blood  was  up,  and  consequently,  with  greater  pluck  than 
discretion,  he  struggled  against  the  intimate,  inalienable  enemy 
that  so  marred  his  fate.  And  it  was  this  not  ignoble  effort 
which  culminated  in  disobedience. 

For  driving  back  one  afternoon,  later  than  usual, — Ormiston 
had  met  them,  and  Mary  and  he  had  taken  a  by-path  home 
through  the  woods, — the  pony-carriage,  turned  along  the  high 
level  road  beside  the  lake,  going  eastward,  just  as  the  string  of 
racehorses,  coming  home  from  exercise,  passed  along  it  coming 
west.  Richard  was  driving,  Chaplin,  the  second  coachman,  sitting 
in  the  dickey  at  the  back  of  the  low  carriage.  He  checked  the 
pony,  and  his  eyes  took  in  the  whole  scene  —  the  blue-brown 
expanse  of  the  lake  dotted  with  water-fowl,  on  the  one  hand, 
the  immense,  blue-brown  landscape  on  the  other,  ranging  away  to 
the  faint  line  of  the  chalk  downs  in  the  Sf)uth  ;  the  downward 
slope  of  the  park,  to  the  great  siiuarc  of  red  stable-buildings  in 
the  hollow  ;  the  horses  coming  slowly  towards  him  in  single  file. 
Cawing  rooks  streamed  bark  from  the  fallow-fields  across  the 
valley.  Thrushes  and  blackbirds  carolled.  A  wren,  in  the 
bramble-brake   close    by,  broke  into  sharp,  sweet  song.      The 


122  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

recurrent  ring  of  an  axe  came  from  somewhere  away  in  the  fir 
plantations,  and  the  strident  rasping  of  a  saw  from  the  wood-yard 
in  the  beech  grove  near  the  house. 

Richard  stared  at  that  oncoming  procession.  Half-way 
between  him  and  the  foremost  of  the  horses  the  tan  ride 
branched  off,  and  wound  down  the  hillside  to  the  stables.  The 
boy  set  his  teeth.  He  arrived  at  a  desperate  decision — touched 
up  the  pony  and  drove  on. 

Chaplin  leaned  forward,  addressing  him  over  the  back  of 
the  seat. 

"  Better  wait  here,  hadn't  we.  Sir  Richard  ?  They'll  turn  off 
in  a  minute." 

Richard  did  not  look  round.  He  tried  to  answer  coldly,  but 
his  voice  shook. 

"  I  know.     That's  why  I  am  going  on." 

There  was  a  silence  save  for  the  cawing  of  the  rooks,  ring 
of  the  axe,  and  grinding  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  Chaplin, 
responsible,  correct,  over  five -and -thirty,  and  fully  intending  to 
succeed  old  Mr.  Wenham,  the  head  coachman,  on  the  latter's 
impending  retirement  from  active  service,  went  very  red  in  the 
face. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  my  orders,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said. 
Dickie  still  looked  straight  ahead. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  "then  perhaps  you'd  better  get 
out  and  walk  on  home." 

"  You  know  I'm  bound  not  to  leave  you,  sir,"  the  man 
said. 

Dickie  laughed  a  little  in  uncontrollable  excitement.  He 
was  close  to  them  now.  The  leading  horse  was  just  moving 
off  the  main  road,  its  shadow  lying  long  across  the  turf.  How 
was  it  possible  to  give  way  with  the  prize  within  reach  ? — "  You 
can  go  or  stay  Chaplin,  as  you  please.  I  mean  to  speak  to 
Chifney,  I — I  mean  to  see  the  stables." 
"It's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth,  sir." 
"  Oh  !  bother  your  place  ! "  the  boy  cried  impetuously. — 
Dear  heart  alive,  how  fine  they  were  as  they  filed  by  !  That 
chestnut  filly,  clean  made  as  a  deer,  her  ears  laid  back  as  she 
reached  at  the  bit ;  and  the  brown,  just  behind  her —  "  I  mean, 
I  mean  you  needn't  be  afraid,  Chaplin — I'll  speak  to  her  lady- 
ship.    I'll  arrange  all  that.     Go  to  the  pony's  head." 

At  the  end  of  the  long  string  of  horses  came  the  trainer — a 
square-built,  short-necked  man,  sanguine  complexioned  and 
clean  shaven.  Of  hair,  indeed,  Mr.  Chifney  could  only  boast 
a  rim  of  carroty-grey  stubble  under  the  rim  of  the  back  of  his 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  123 

hard  hat.  His  right  eye  had  suffered  damage,  and  the  pupil 
of  it  was  white  and  viscous.  His  hps  were  straight  and  purplish 
in  colour.  He  raised  his  hat  and  would  have  followed  on  down 
the  slope,  but  Dickie  called  to  him. 

As  he  rode  up  an  unwonted  expression  came  over  Mr. 
Chifney's  shrewd,  hard-favoured  face.  He  took  off  his  hat  and 
sat  there,  bare-headed  in  the  sunshine,  looking  down  at  the  boy 
his  hand  on  his  hip. 

"Good-day,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said.  "Anything  I  can  do 
for  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Dickie  stammered,  all  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  his 
cheeks  aflame,  "you  can  do  just  what  I  want  most.  Take  me 
down,  Chifney,  and  show  me  the  horses." 

Here  Chaplin  coughed  discreetly  behind  his  hand.  But 
that  proved  of  small  avail,  save  possibly  in  the  way  of  provoca- 
tion. For,  socially,  between  the  racing  and  house  stables  was  a 
great  gulf  fixed  ;  and  Mr.  Chifney  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
recognise  the  existence  of  a  man  in  livery  standing  at  a  pony's 
head,  still  less  to  accept  direction  from  such  a  person.  Servants 
must  be  kept  in  their  place — impudent,  lazy  enough  lot  anyhow, 
bless  you  !  On  his  feet  the  trainer  had  been  known  to  decline 
to  moments  of  weakness.  But  in  the  saddle,  a  good  horse  under 
him,  he  possessed  unlimited  belief  in  his  own  judgment,  fearing 
neither  man,  devil,  nor  even  his  own  meek-faced  wife  with  lilac 
ribbons  in  her  cap.  Moreover,  he  felt  such  heart  as  he  had  go 
out  strangely  to  the  beautiful,  eager  boy  gazing  up  at  him. 

"  Nothing  'ud  give  me  greater  pleasure  in  life,  Sir  Richard," 
he  said,  "  if  you're  free  to  come.  We've  waited  a  long  time,  a 
precious  long  time,  sir,  for  you  to  come  down  and  take  a  look 
at  your  horses." 

"  I'd  have  been  to  see  them  sooner.  I'd  have  given  anything 
to  see  them.     I've  never  had  the  chance,  somehow." 

Chifney  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  surveyed  the  distant  land- 
scape with  a  very  meaning  glance.  "  I  daresay  not.  Sir  Richard. 
But  better  late  than  never,  you  know ;  and  so,  if  you  are  free  to 
come" — 

Again  Chaplin  coughed. 

"Free  to  come?  Of  course  I  am  free  to  come,"  Dickie 
asserted,  his  pride  touched  to  arrogance.  And  Mr.  Chifney 
looked  at  him,  an  approving  twinkle  in  his  sound  eye. 

"  I    agree,    Sir   Richard.     Quite   right,    sir,    you're   free,    of 


course." 


Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  says  the  proverb.     And  to  Richard 
Calmady,  his  not  wholly  legitimate  experience  of  the  next  hour 


124  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

was  sweet  indeed.  For  there  remains  rich  harvest  of  poetry  in 
all  sport  worth  the  name,  let  squeamish  and  sentimental  persons 
declaim  against  it  as  they  may.  Strength  and  endurance,  dis- 
regard of  suffering,  have  a  ])ermanent  appeal  and  value,  even  in 
their  coarsest  manifestations.  No  doubt  the  noble  gentlemen 
of  the  neighbourhood,  who  "lay  at  Brockhurst  two  nights"  on 
the  occasion  of  Sir  Denzil's  historic  house-warming,  to  witness 
the  mighty  bear-baiting,  were  sensible  of  something  more  in  that 
somewhat  disgusting  exhibition,  than  the  mere  gratification  of 
brutal  instincts,  the  mere  savage  relish  for  wounds  and  pain  and 
blood.  And  to  Sir  Denzil's  latest  descendant  the  first  sight  of 
the  training-stable — as  the  pony-carriage  came  to  a  standstill 
alongside  the  grass  plot  in  the  centre  of  the  great,  gravelled 
square — offered  very  definite  and  stirring  poetry  of  a  kind. 

On  three  sides  the  quadrangle  was  shut  in  by  one-storied, 
brick  buildings,  the  woodwork  of  doors  and  windows  immaculate 
with  white  paint.  Behind,  over  the  wide  archway, — closed  fortress- 
like by  heavy  doors  at  night, — were  the  head-lad's  and  helpers' 
quarters.  On  either  side,  forge  and  weighing-room,  saddler's  and 
doctor's  shop.  To  right  and  left  a  range  of  stable  doors,  with 
round  swing-lights  between  each ;  and,  above  these,  the  windows 
of  hay  and  straw  lofts  and  of  the  boys'  dormitories.  In  front 
were  the  dining-rooms  and  kitchens,  and  the  trainer's  house — a 
square  clock  tower,  carrying  an  ornate  gilt  vane,  rising  from  the 
cluster  of  red  roofs.  Twenty  years  had  weathered  the  raw  of 
brick  walls,  and  painted  the  tiling  with  all  manner  of  orange 
and  rusiy-coloured  lichens ;  yet  the  whole  place  was  admirably 
spick  and  span,  free  of  litter.  Many  cats,  as  Dickie  noted, 
meditated  in  sunny  corners,  or  prowled  in  the  open  with  truly 
official  composure.  Over  all  stretched  a  square  of  bluest  sky, 
crossed  by  a  skein  of  homeward-v/ending  rooks.  While  above 
the  roofs,  on  either  side  the  archway,  the  high-lying  lands  of 
the  park  showed  up,  broken  here  and  there  by  clumps  of 
trees. 

Mr.  Chifney  slipped  out  of  the  saddle. — "  Here,  boy,  take 
my  horse,"  he  shouted  to  a  little  fellow  hurrying  across  the 
yard.  "I'm  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  Sir  Richard,"  he  went  on. 
"  Now,  if  you  care,  as  your  father's  son  can't  very  well  be  off 
caring,  for  horses  " — 

"  If  I  care  !  "  echoed  Dickie,  his  eyes  following  the  graceful, 
chestnut  filly  as  she  was  led  in  over  the  threshold  of  her  stable. 

"I  like  that.  That'll  do.  Chip  of  the  old  block  after  all," 
the  trainer  said,  with  evident  relish.  "  Well  then,  since  you  do 
care  for  horses  as  you  ought  to.  Sir  Richard,  we'll  just  make  you 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  125 

free  of  this  establishment.  About  the  most  first-class  private 
establishment  in  England,  sir,  though  I  say  it  that  have  run  the 
concern  pretty  well  single-handed  for  the  best  part  of  the  last 
fifteen  years — make  you  free  of  it  right  away,  sir.  And,  look  you, 
when  you've  got  hold,  don't  you  leave  hold." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  Dickie  said  stoutly. 

Mr.  Chifney  was  in  a  condition  of  singular  emotion,  as  he 
wrapped  Richard's  rug  about  him  and  bore  him  away  into  the 
stables.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  swear  a  little  under  his 
breath ;  and  Chifney  was  a  very  fairly  clean-mouthed  man, 
unless  members  of  his  team  of  twenty  and  odd  naughty  boys 
got  up  to  some  devilry  with  their  charges.  He  carried  Richard 
as  tenderly  as  could  any  woman,  while  he  tramped  from  stall  to 
stall,  loose-box  to  loose-box,  praising  his  racers,  calling  attention 
to  their  points,  recounting  past  prowess,  or  prophesying  future 
victories. 

And  the  record  was  a  fine  one ;  for  good  luck  had  clung  to 
the  masterless  stable,  as  Lady  Calmady's  bank-books  and  ledgers 
could  testify. 

"Vinedresser,  by  Red  Burgundy  out  of  Valeria — won  two 
races  at  the  Newmarket  Spring  Meeting  the  year  before  last. 
Lamed  himself  somehow  in  the  horse-box  coming  back  —  did 
nothing  for  eighteen  months — hope  to  enter  him  for  some  of 
the  autumn  events." — Then  later  : — "  Sahara,  by  North-  African 
out  of  Sally-in-our-Alley.  Beautiful  mare?  I  believe  you,  Sir 
Richard.  Why  she  won  the  Oaks  for  you.  Jack  White  was  up. 
Pretty  a  race  as  ever  I  witnessed,  and  cleverly  ridden.  Like  to 
go  up  to  her  in  the  stall?  She's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  Catch 
hold  of  her  head,  boy." 

And  so  Dick  found  himself  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  manger, 
the  trainer's  arm  round  him,  and  the  historic  Sahara  snuffing  at 
his  jacket  pockets. 

Then  they  crossed  the  quadrangle  to  inspect  the  colts  and 
fillies,  whose  glories  still  lay  ahead. 

"Verdigris,  by  Copper  King  out  of  Valeria  again.  And  if  he 
doesn't  make  a  name  I'll  never  judge  another  horse,  sir.  Strain 
of  the  old  Touchstone  blood  there.  Rather  ugly?  Yes,  they're 
often  a  bit  ugly  that  lot,  but  devilish  good  'uns  to  go.  You  ask 
Miss  Cathcart  about  them.  Never  met  a  lady  who'd  as  much 
knowledge  as  she  has  of  a  horse.  The  Baby,  by  J'unch  out  of 
Lady  Bountiful.  Not  much  good,  I'm  afraid.  No  grip,  you  see, 
too  contracted  in  the  hoofs.  Chloroform,  by  Sawbones  out  of 
sister  to  Castinetle." 

And  so  forth,  an  endless  repetition  of  genealogies,  comments. 


126  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

anecdotes  to  which  Dickie  lent  most  attentive  ear.  He  was  keen 
to  learn,  his  attention  was  on  the  stretch.  He  was  in  process  of 
initiation,  and  every  moment  of  the  sacred  rites  came  to  him 
with  power  and  vakie.  Yet  it  must  be  owned  that  he  found  the 
lessening  of  the  strain  on  his  memory  and  attention  not  wholly 
unwelcome  when  Mr.  Chifney,  sitting  beside  him  on  the  big, 
white-painted  corn-bin  opposite  Diplomacy's  loose-box,  began  to 
tell  him  of  the  old  times  when  he — a  little  fellow  of  eight  to  ten 
years  of  age — had  been  among  the  boys  in  his  cousin,  Sam 
Chifney's  famous  stable  at  Newmarket.  Of  the  long,  weary 
travelling,  before  the  days  of  railways,  when  the  horses  were 
walked  by  highroad  and  country  lane,  ankle  deep  in  mud, 
from  Newmarket  to  Epsom ;  and  after  victory  or  defeat, 
walked  by  slow  stages  all  the  way  home  again.  Of  how,  later, 
he  had  migrated  to  Doncaster;  but,  not  liking  the  "Yorkshire 
tykes,"  had  got  taken  on  in  some  well-known  stables  upon  the 
Berkshire  downs. 

"And  it  was  there.  Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "  I  met  your  father, 
and  we  fancied  each  other  from  the  first.  And  he  asked  me  to 
come  to  him.  These  stables  were  just  building  then.  And  here 
I've  been  ever  since." 

Mr.  Chifney  stared  down  at  the  clean,  red  quarries  of  the 
stable  floor,  and  tapped  his  neat  gaiters  with  the  switch  he 
held  in  his  hand. 

"Rum  places,  racing -stables,"  he  went  on,  meditatively, 
"  and  a  lot  of  rum  things  go  on  in  'em,  one  way  and  another,  as 
you'll  come  to  know.  And  it  ain't  the  easiest  thing  going,  I  tell 
you,  to  keep  your  hands  clean.  Ungrateful  business  a  trainer's. 
Sir  Richard — wearing  business — shortens  a  man's  temper  and 
makes  him  old  before  his  time.  Out  by  four  o'clock  on  summer 
mornings,  minding  your  cattle  and  keeping  your  eye  on  those 
shirking  blackguards  of  boys.  No  real  rest,  sir,  day  or  night. 
Wearing  business — studying  all  the  meetings  and  entering  your 
horses  where  you've  reason  to  reckon  they've  most  chance.  And 
if  your  horse  wins,  the  jockey  gets  all  the  praise  and  the  petting. 
And  if  it  fails,  the  trainer  gets  all  the  blame.  Yes,  it's  wearing 
work.  But,  confound  it  all,  sir,"  he  broke  out  hotly,  "there's 
nothing  like  it  on  the  face  of  God's  earth.  Horses — horses — 
horses — why  the  very  smell  of  the  bedding's  sweeter  than  a 
bunch  of  roses.  Love  'em  ?  I  believe  you.  And  you'll  love 
'em  too  before  you've  done." 

He  turned  and  gripped  Dickie  hard  by  the  shoulder. 

"  For  we'll  make  a  thorough-paced  sportsman  of  you  yet,  Sir 
Richard,"  he  said,  "  God  bless  you — danged  if  we  don't." 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  127 

Which  assertion  Mr.  Chifney  repeated  at  frequent  intervals 
over  his  grog  that  evening,  as  he  sat,  not  in  the  smart  dining- 
room  hung  round  with  portraits  of  Vinedresser  and  Sahara  and 
other  equine  notabiUties,  but  in  the  snug,  httle,  back  parlour 
looking  out  on  to  the  yard.  ]\Irs.  Chifney  was  a  gentle,  pious 
woman,  with  whom  her  husband's  profession  went  somewhat 
against  the  grain.  She  would  have  preferred  a  nice  grocery,  or 
other  respectable,  uneventful  business,  in  a  country  town,  and 
dissipation  in  the  form  of  prayer  rather  than  of  race-meetings. 
But  as  a  slender,  slightly  self-righteous,  young  maiden  she 
had  fallen  very  honestly  and  completely  in  love  with  Tom 
Chifney.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  marry  him  and  regard 
the  horses  as  her  appointed  cross.  She  nursed  the  boys  when 
they  were  sick  or  injured,  intervened  fairly  successfully  between 
their  poor,  little  backs  and  her  husband's  all-too-ready  ash  stick ; 
and  assisted  Julius  March  in  promoting  their  spiritual  welfare, 
even  while  deploring  that  the  latter  put  his  faith  in  forms  and 
ceremonies  rather  than  in  saving  grace.  Upon  the  trainer  himself 
she  exercised  a  gently  repressive  influence. 

"We  won't  swear,  Mr.  Chifney,"  she  remarked  mildly  now. 

"  Swear  !  It's  enough  to  make  the  whole  bench  of  bishops 
swear  to  see  that  lad." 

"  I  did  see  him,"  Mrs.  Chifney  observed. 

"  Yes,  out  of  window.  But  you  didn't  carry  him  round,  and 
hear  him  talk—  knowledgeable  talk  as  you  could  ask  from  one 
of  his  age.  And  watch  his  face — as  like  as  two  peas  to  his 
father's." 

"  But  her  ladyship's  eyes,"  put  in  Mrs.  Chifney. 

"  I  don't  know  whose  eyes  they  are,  but  I  know  he  can  use 
'em.     It  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture  to  see  how  he  took  it  all." 

Chifney  tossed  off  the  remainder  of  his  tumbler  of  brandy  and 
water  at  a  gulp. 

"Swear,"  he  repeated,  "I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  swear 
like  hell.  But  I  can  find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  more  than  that. 
I  can  forgive  her  ladyship.     By  all  that's  " — 

"'J'homas,  forgiveness  and  oaths  don't  go  suitably  together." 

"Well,  but  I  can  though,  and  I  tell  you,  I  do,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "  I  forgive  her. — Shoot  the  Clown  !  by  G — !  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Maria — but  upon  my  soul,  onrc  or  twice,  when 
I  had  him  in  my  arms  to-day,  I  felt  I  could  liavt;  understood  it 
if  she'd  had  every  horse  shot  that  stood  in  the  stable." 

He  held  the  tumbler  up  against  the  lamj).  But  it  was  quite 
empty. 

"Uncommon  glad   she   didn't    though,    poor   lady,  all    llie 


128  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

same,"  he  added,  parenthetically,  as  he  set  it  down  on  the  table 
again. — "  What  do  you  say,  Maria — about  time  we  toddled  off 
to  bed?" 


CHAPTER  V 

IN    WHICH    niCKIK    IS    INTRODUCED    TO    A    LITfLE    DANCER    WITH 
BLUSH-ROSES    IN    HER    HAT 

"  T  T  ER  ladyship's  inquired  for  you  more  than  once,  sir." — 
\~\_  This  from  Winter  meeting  the  pony-carriage  and  the 
returning  prodigal  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 

The  sun  was  low.  Across  the  square  lawn — whereon  the 
Clown  had  found  death  some  thirteen  years  before — peacocks  led 
home  their  hens  and  chicks  to  roost  within  the  two  sexagonal, 
pepper-pot  summer-houses  that  fill  in  the  angles  of  the  red-walled 
enclosure.  The  pea-fowl  stepped  mincingly,  high-shouldered, 
their  heads  carried  low,  their  long  necks  undulating  with  a  self- 
conscious  grace.  Dickie's  imagination  was  aglow  like  that 
rose-red,  sunset  sky.  The  virile  sentiment  of  all  just  heard 
and  seen,  and  the  exultation  of  admitted  ownership  were  upon 
him.  He  felt  older,  stronger,  more  secure  of  himself,  than  ever 
before.  He  proposed  to  go  straight  to  his  mother  and  confess. 
In  his  present  mood  he  entertained  no  fear  but  that  she  would 
understand. 

"Is  Lady  Calmady  alone?"  he  asked. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cathcart  are  with  her,  Sir  Richard." — Winter 
leant  down,  loosening  the  rug.  His  usual  undemonstrative 
speech  took  on  a  loftiness  of  tone.  "  Mrs.  William  Ormiston 
and  her  daughter  have  driven  over  with  Mrs.  Cathcart." — 
The  butler  was  not  without  remembrance  of  that  dinner  on 
the  day  following  Dickie's  birth.  Socially  he  had  never  con- 
sidered Lady  Calmady's  sister-in-law  quite  up  to  the  Brockhurst 
level. 

Richard  leaned  back,  watching  the  mincing  peacocks.  It 
was  so  fair  here  out  of  doors.  The  scent  of  the  may  hung  in  the 
air.  The  flame  of  the  sunset  bathed  the  fagade  of  the  stately 
house.  No  doubt  it  would  be  interesting  to  see  new  people, 
new  relations ;  but  he  really  cared  to  see  no  one,  just  now, 
except  his  mother.  From  her  he  wanted  to  receive  absolution, 
so  that,  his  conscience  relieved  of  the  burden  of  his  disobedience, 
he  might  revel  to  the  full  in  the  thought  of  the  inheritance  upon 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  129 

which — so  it  seemed  to  him — he  had  to-day  entered.  Still,  in 
his  present  humour,  Dickie's  sense  of  noblesse  oblige  was  strong. 

"  I  suppose  I've  got  to  go  in  and  help  entertain  everybody," 
he  remarked. 

"  Her  ladyship  '11  think  something's  wrong.  Sir  Richard,  and 
be  anxious  if  you  stay  away." 

The  boy  held  out  his  arms.  "All  right  then,  Winter,"  he 
said. 

Here  Chaplin  again  gave  that  admonitory  cough.  Richard, 
his  face  hardening  to  slight  scorn,  looked  at  him  over  the  butler's 
shoulder. 

"  Oh  !  You  need  not  be  uneasy,  Chaplin.  When  I  say  I'll 
do  a  thing,  I  don't  forget." 

A\'hich  brief  speech  caused  the  butler  to  reflect,  as  he 
bore  the  boy  across  the  hall  and  upstairs,  that  Sir  Richard  was 
coming  to  have  an  uncommonly  high  manner  about  him,  at 
times,  considering  his  age. 

An  unwonted  loudness  of  conversation  filled  the  Chapel- 
Room.  It  was  filled  also  by  the  rose-red  light  of  the  sunset  stream- 
ing in  through  the  curve  of  the  oriel-window.  This  confused 
and  dazzled  Richard  slightly,  entering  upon  it  from  the  silence 
and  sober  clearness  of  the  stair-head.  A  shrill  note  of  laughter. — 
Mr.  Cathcart's  voice  saying — "  I  felt  it  incumbent  upon  me  to 
object,  Lady  Calmady.  I  spoke  very  plainly  to  Fallowfeild." — 
Julius  March's  delicately  refined  tones — "I  am  afraid  spirituality 
is  somewhat  deficient  in  that  case." — Then  the  high,  flute-like 
notes  of  a  child,  rising  clearly  above  the  general  murmur — 
"  Ah  !  enfin — le  voild,  Mama?i.  C'est  bien  lui,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  " 
And  with  that,  Richard  was  aware  of  a  sudden  hush  falling  upon 
the  assembled  company.  He  was  sensible  everyone  watched 
him  as  Winter  carried  him  across  the  room  and  set  him  down  in 
the  long,  low  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace.  Poor  Dickie's  self- 
consciousness,  which  had  been  so  agreeably  in  abeyance, 
returned  upon  him,  and  a  red,  not  of  the  sunset,  dyed  his  face. 
But  he  carried  his  head  proudly.  He  thought  of  Chifney  and 
the  horses.     He  refused  to  be  abashed. 

And  Ormiston,  breaking  the  silence,  called  to  him  cheerily  : — 

"  Hello,  old  chap,  what  have  you  been  up  to  ?  You  gave 
Mary  and  me  the  slip." 

"  I  know  I  did,"  the  boy  answered  bravely.  "  How  d'ye 
do,  Mrs.  Cathcart?"  as  the  latter  nodded  and  smiled  to  him — a 
large,  gentle,  comfortable  lady,  uncertain  in  outline,  thanks  to 
voluminous  draperies  of  black  silk  and  ijlack  lace.  "  How  d'ye 
do,  sir?"  this  to  Mr.  Cathcart — a  tall,  neatly-made  man,  but  for  a 

9 


130  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

slight  roundness  of  the  shoulders.  Seeing  him,  there  remained 
no  doubt  as  to  whence  Mary  inherited  her  large  mouth ;  but 
matter  for  thankfulness  that  she  had  avoided  further  inheritance. 
For  Mr.  Cathcart  was  notably  plain.  Small  eyes  and  snub  nose, 
long,  lower  jaw,  and  grey,  forward-curled  whiskers  rendered  his 
appearance  unfortunately  simian.  He  suggested  a  caricature ; 
but  one,  let  it  be  added,  of  a  person  undeniably  well-bred. 

"  My  darling,  you  are  very  late,"  Katherine  said.  Her  back 
was  towards  her  guests  as  she  stooped  down  arranging  the 
embroidered  rug  across  Dickie's  feet  and  legs.  Laying  his  hand 
on  her  wrist  he  squeezed  it  closely  for  a  moment. 

"I — I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  presently,  mummy,  when 
they're  gone.  I've  been  enjoying  myself  awfully  —  you  won't 
mind  ?  " 

Katherine  smiled.  But,  looking  up  at  her,  it  appeared  to 
Richard  that  her  face  was  very  white,  her  eyes  very  large  and 
dark,  and  that  she  was  very  tall  and,  somehow,  very  splendid 
just  then.  And  this  fed  his  fearlessness,  fed  his  young  pride, 
even  as,  though  in  a  more  subtle  and  exquisite  manner,  his  late 
experience  of  the  racing-stable  had  fed  them.  His  mother 
moved  away  and  took  up  her  interrupted  conversation  with 
Mr.  Cathcart  regarding  the  delinquencies  of  Lord  Fallowfeild. 
Richard  looked  coolly  round  the  room. 

Everyone  was  there — Julius,  Mary,  Mademoiselle  de  Miran- 
court,  while  away  in  the  oriel-window  Roger  Ormiston  stood 
talking  to  a  pretty,  plump,  very  much  dressed  lady,  who  chattered, 
laughed,  stared,  with  surprising  vivacity.  As  Dickie  looked  at 
her  she  stared  back  at  him  through  a  pair  of  gold  eye-glasses. 
Against  her  knee,  that  rosy  hght  bathing  her  graceful,  little 
figure,  leant  a  girl  about  Dickie's  own  age.  She  wore  a  pale 
pink  and  blue  frock,  short  and  outstanding  in  the  skirts.  She 
also  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  white  hat,  with  a  garland  of  blush- 
roses  around  the  crown  of  it.  The  little  girl  did  not  stare.  She 
contemplated  Richard  languidly,  yet  with  sustained  attention. 
Her  attitude  and  bearing  were  attractive.  Richard  wanted  to 
see  her  close,  to  talk  to  her.  But  to  call  and  ask  her  to  come 
to  him  was  awkward.  And  to  go  to  her — the  boy  grew  a  little 
hot  again — was  more  awkward  still. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  dropped  her  gold  eye-glasses  into  her  lap. 

"  It  really  is  ten  thousand  pities  when  these  things  happen 
in  the  wrong  rank  of  life,"  she  said.  *'  Rightly  placed  they 
might  be  so  profitable." 

"  For  goodness  sake,  be  careful,  Charlotte,"  Ormiston  put  in 
quickly. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAI^IS  131 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  creature,  don't  be  nervous.  Everybody's 
attending  to  everybody  else,  and  if  they  did  hear  they  wouldn't 
understand.  I'm  one  of  the  fortunate  persons  who  are  supposed 
never  to  talk  sense  and  so  I  can  say  what  I  like."  Mrs.  Ormiston 
gave  her  shrill  little  laugh.  "  Oh  !  there  are  consolations,  depend 
upon  it,  in  a  well-sustained  reputation  for  folly  ! " 

The  laugh  jarred  on  Richard.  He  decided  that  he  did  not 
quite  like  his  aunt  Charlotte  Ormiston.  All  the  same  he  wished 
the  charming,  little  girl  would  come  to  him. 

"But  to  return. — It's  a  waste.  To  some  poor  family  it 
might  have  been  a  perfect  fortune.  And  I  hate  waste.  Perhaps 
you  have  never  discovered  that  ?  " 

Ormiston  let  his  glance  rest  on  the  somewhat  showy  figure. 

"  I  doubt  if  William  has  discovered  it  either,"  he  remarked. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  your  poor  brother  William,  Heaven  only  knows 
what  he  has  or  has  not  discovered  ! — Now,  Helen,  this  conversa- 
tion becomes  undesirable.  You've  asked  innumerable  questions 
about  your  cousin.  Go  and  make  acquaintance  with  him.  I'm 
the  best  of  mothers  of  course,  but,  at  times,  I  really  can  do  quite 
well  without  you." 

Now  surely  this  was  a  day  of  good  fortune,  for  again  Dickie 
had  his  desire.  And  a  most  surprisingly  pretty,  little  desire  it 
proved — seductive  even,  deliciously  finished  in  person  and  in 
manner.  The  boy  gazed  at  the  girl's  small  hands  and  small, 
daintily  shod  feet,  at  the  small,  lovely,  pink  and  white  face  set  in 
a  cloud  of  golden-brown  hair,  at  the  innocent,  blue  eyes,  at  the 
mouth  with  upturned  corners  to  it.  Richard  was  not  of  age  to 
remark  the  eyes  were  rather  light  in  colour,  the  lips  rather  thin. 
The  exquisite  refinement  of  the  girl's  whole  person  delighted 
him.  She  was  delicate  as  a  miniature,  as  a  figure  carved  in  ivory. 
She  was  like  his  uncle  Roger,  when  she  was  silent  and  still.  She 
was  like — oh,  poor  Dick  !— some  bright  glancing,  small,  saucy 
bird  when  she  spoke  and  her  voice  had  those  clear,  flute  tones 
in  it. 

"  Since  you  did  not  come  to  me,  I  had  to  come  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  wanted  so  mucli  to  see  you.  I  had  heard  about 
you  at  home,  in  Paris." 

"  Heard  about  me  ?  "  Dickie  repeated,  flattered  and  surprised. 
"  Put  won't  you  sit  down  ?  Look — that  little  chair.  I  can  reach 
it." 

And  leaning  sideways  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  Put  his 
finger-tips  barely  touched  llie  top  rail.  Richard  flushed. — "I'm 
awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  afraid — it  isn't  heavy — I  must 
let  you  get  it  yourself." 


132  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

The  girl,  who  had  watched  him  intently,  her  hands  clasped, 
gave  a  little  sigh.  Then  the  corners  of  her  mouth  turned  up  as 
she  smiled.     A  delightful  dimple  showed  in  her  right  cheek. 

"But,  of  course,"  she  replied,  "I  will  get  it." 

She  settled  herself  beside  him,  folded  her  hands,  crossed  her 
feet,  exposing  a  long  length  of  fine,  open-work,  silk  stocking. 

"I  desired  enormously  to  see  you,"  she  continued.  "But 
when  you  came  in  I  grew  shy.     It  is  so  with  one  sometimes." 

"You  should  use  your  influence,  Lady  Calmady,"  Mr. 
Cathcart  was  saying.  "  Unquestionably  the  condition  of  the 
workhouse  is  far  from  satisfactory.  And  Fallowfeild  is  too 
lenient.  That  laisser-aller  policy  of  his  threatens  to  land  us 
in  serious  difficulties.  The  place  is  insanitary,  and  the  food  is 
unnecessarily  poor.  I  am  not  an  advocate  for  extravagance, 
but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  discomfort  which  might  be  avoided. 
Fallowfeild  is  the  most  kind-hearted  of  men,  but  he  has  a  fatal 
habit  of  believing  what  people  tell  him.  And  those  workhouse 
officials  have  got  round  him.  The  whole  matter  ought  to  be 
subjected  to  the  strictest  investigation." 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  have  wanted  so  much  to  see  me," 
Dickie  said.     His  eyes  were  softly  bright. 

"  Oh  !  but  one  always  wants  to  see  those  who  are  talked 
about.     It  is  a  privilege  to  have  them  for  one's  relations." 

"  But — but — I'm  not  talked  about  ?  "  the  boy  put  in,  some- 
what startled. 

"But  certainly.  You  are  so  rich.  You  have  this  superb 
chateau.  You  are  " — she  put  her  head  on  one  side  with  a  pretty, 
saucy,  birdlike  movement  —  '■'■  e7ifin"  she  said,  "I  had  the 
greatest  curiosity  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  shall  tell  all  my 
young  friends  at  the  convent  about  this  visit.  I  promised  them 
that,  as  soon  as  mama  said  we  should  probably  come  here. 
The  good  sisters  also  are  interested.  I  shall  recount  a  whole 
history  of  this  beautiful  castle,  and  of  you,  and  your" — 

She  paused,  clasped  her  hands,  looking  away  at  her  mother, 
then  sideways  at  Richard,  bowing  her  little  person  backwards 
and  forwards,  laughing  softly  all  the  while.  And  her  laughing 
face  was  extraordinarily  pretty  under  the  shade  of  her  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

"  It  is  a  great  misfortune  we  stay  so  short  a  time,"  she 
continued.     "  I  shall  not  see  the  half  of  all  that  I  wish  to  see." 

Then  an  heroic  plan  of  action  occurred  to  Richard.  The 
daring  engendered  by  his  recent  act  of  disobedience  was  still  active 
in  him.  He  was  in  the  humour  to  attempt  the  impossible.  He 
longed,  moreover,  to  give  this  delectable  little  person  pleasure. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  133 

He  was  willing  even  to  sacrifice  a  measure  of  personal  dignity  in 
her  service. 

"  Oh  !  but  if  you  care  so  much,  I — I  will  show  you  the 
house,'"'  he  said. 

"Will  you?"  she  cried,  "You  and  I  alone  together?  But 
that  is  precisely  Mhat  I  want.     It  would  be  ravishing." 

Poor  Dickie's  heart  misgave  him  slightly;  but  he  summoned 
all  his  resolution.     He  threw  off  the  concealing  rug. 

"I — I  walk  very  slowly,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  rather  huskily, 
looking  up  at  her,  while  in  his  expression  appeal  mingled 
pathetically  with  defiant  pride. 

"But,  so  much  the  better,"  she  replied.  "We  shall  be 
the  longer  together,  I  shall  have  the  more  to  observe,  to 
recount." 

She  was  on  her  feet.  She  hovered  round  him,  birdlike, 
intent  on  his  every  movement. 

Meanwhile  the  sound  of  conversation  rose  continuous. 
Lady  Calmady,  calling  to  Julius,  had  moved  away  to  the  great 
writing-table  in  the  farther  window.  Together  they  searched 
among  a  pile  of  papers  for  a  letter  of  Dr.  Knott's,  embodying 
his  scheme  of  the  new  hospital  at  AVestchurch.  Mr.  Cathcart 
stood  by,  expounding  his  views  on  the  subject. 

"  Of  course  a  considerable  income  can  be  derived  from 
letters  of  recommendation,"  he  was  saying,  "in-patient  and 
out-patient  tickets.  The  clergy  come  in  there.  They  cannot 
be  expected  to  give  large  donations.  It  would  be  unreasonable 
to  expect  that  of  them." 

Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  Mary,  had 
drawn  their  chairs  together.  The  two  elder  ladies  spoke  with 
a  subdued  enthusiasm,  discussing  pleasant  details  of  the 
approaching  wedding,  which  promised  the  younger  lady  so  glad 
a  future.  Mrs.  Ormiston  chattered  ;  while  Ormiston,  listening 
to  her,  gazed  away  down  the  green  length  of  the  elm  avenue, 
beyond  the  square  lawn  and  pcppcr-pot  summer-houses,  and 
[)ilied  men  who  made  such  mistakes  in  the  matter  of  matrimony 
as  his  brother  William  obviously  had.  The  rose  of  the  sunset 
faded  in  tiie  west.  Bats  began  to  flit  forth,  hawking  against 
the  still-warm  house-walls  for  flies. 

And  so,  unobserved,  Dickie  slij)]Kd  out  of  the  security  of 
his  arm-chair,  and  rose  to  that  sadly  deficient  full  height  of  his. 
He  was  nervous,  and  this  rendered  his  balance  more  than  ever 
uncertain.  He  shuffled  forward,  steadying  himself  by  a  piece 
of  furniture  h(;re  and  there  in  passing,  until  he  reached  the  wide 
o[)en    space    before    the   door  on    to    the    stair-head.      And   it 


134  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

required  some  fortitude  to  cross  this  space,  for  here  was  nothing 
to  lay  hold  of  for  support. 

Little  Helen  Ormiston  had  kept  close  beside  him  so  far.  Now 
she  drew  back,  leaving  him  alone.  Leaning  against  a  table, 
she  watched  his  laborious  progress.  Then  a  fit  of  uncontrol- 
lable laughter  took  her.  She  flew  half-way  across  to  the  oriel- 
window,  her  voice  ringing  out  clear  and  gay,  though  broken  by 
bursts  of  irrepressible  merriment. 

'''■  Regardez,  rega}-dez  done,  Maffia?i/  Ma  bonne  vi'avait  dit 
{,'?/'/7  etait  nn  avorto?i,  et  que  ce  serait  /res  aniusant  de  k  voir. 
Elle  m^a  conseiller  de  lui faire  marcher." 

She  darted  back,  and  clapping  her  hands  upon  the  bosom 
of  her  charming  frock,  danced,  literally  danced  and  pirouetted 
around  poor  Dickie. 

'■^  Moi,je  ne  comprenais pas  ce  que  d etait  qti^un  avorton,"  she 
continued  rapidly.  ^^  Mais  je  comprends  parfaitement  main- 
tefiant.      C est  tin  mo7istre,  n\st-ce  pas,  MamanV^ 

She  threw  back  her  head,  her  white  throat  convulsed  by 
laughter. 

"  Ah  /  7non  Dieu,  qti'il  est  drole  I  "  she  cried. 

Silence  fell  on  the  whole  room,  for  sight  and  words  alike 
were  paralysing  in  their  grotesque  cruelty.  Ormiston  was  the 
first  to  speak.  He  laid  his  hand  somewhat  roughly  on  his 
sister-in-law's  shoulder. 

"For  God's  sake,  stop  this,  Charlotte,"  he  said.  "Take  the 
girl  away.  Little  brute,"  he  added,  under  his  breath,  as  he  went 
hastily  across  to  poor  Dick. 

But  Lady  Calmady  had  been  beforehand  with  him.  She  swept 
across  the  room,  flinging  aside  the  dainty,  dancing  figure  as  she 
passed.  All  the  primitive  fierceness,  the  savage  tenderness,  of  her 
motherhood  surged  up  within  her.  Katherine  was  in  the  humour 
to  kill  just  then,  had  killing  been  possible.  She  was  magnifi- 
cently regardless  of  consequences,  regardless  of  conventionalities, 
regardless  of  every  obligation  save  that  of  sheltering  her  child. 
She  cowered  down  over  Richard,  putting  her  arms  about  him, 
knew — without  question  or  answer — that  he  had  heard  and  under- 
stood. Then  gathering  him  up  against  her,  she  stood  upright, 
facing  them  all,  brother,  sister,  old  and  tried  friends,  a  terrible 
expression  in  her  eyes,  the  boy's  face  pressed  down  upon  her 
shoulder.  For  the  moment  she  appeared  alienated  from,  and 
at  war  with,  even  Julius,  even  Marie  de  Mirancourt.  No 
love,  however  faithful,  could  reach  her.  She  was  alone, 
unapproachable,  in  her  immense  anger  and  immense  sense  of 
outrage. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  135 

"I  will  ask  you  to  go,"  she  said  to  her  sister-in-law, — "to 
go  and  take  your  daughter  with  you,  and  to  enter  this  house 
no  more." 

Mrs.  Ormiston  did  not  reply.  Even  her  chatter  was  for  the 
moment  stilled.  She  pressed  a  handkerchief  against  the  little 
dancer's  forehead,  and  it  was  stained  with  blood. 

"Ah!  she  is  a  wicked  woman!"  wailed  the  child.  "She 
has  hurt  me.  She  threw  me  against  the  table.  Maman  qtiel 
malheur  (a  se  verra.     II y  mtra  certaine7nent  u?ie  cicatrice  I " 

"Nonsense,"  Ormiston  said  harshly.  "It's  nothing,  Kitty, 
the  merest  scratch." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  we  will  have  the  carriage  at  once," — this 
from  Mr.  Cathcart  to  his  wife.  The  incident,  from  all  points 
of  view,  shocked  his  sense  of  propriety.  Immediate  retirement 
became  his  sole  object. 

Lady  Calmady  moved  away,  carrying  the  boy.  She  trembled 
a  little.  He  was  heavy.  Moreover,  she  sickened  at  the  sight 
of  blood.  But  little  Helen  Ormiston  caught  at  her  dress,  and 
looked  up  at  her. 

"  I  hate  you,"  she  said,  hissing  the  words  out  with  concentrated 
passion  between  her  pretty  even  teeth.  "  You  have  spoilt  me. 
I  will  hate  you  always,  when  I  grow  up.     I  will  never  forget." 

Alone  in  the  great  state-bedroom  next  door,  a  long  time 
elapsed  before  either  Richard  or  Katherine  spoke.  The  boy 
leaned  back  against  the  sofa  cushions,  holding  his  mother's 
hand.  The  casements  stood  wide  open,  and  little  winds  laden 
with  the  scent  of  the  hawthorns  in  the  park  wandered  in,  gently 
stirring  the  curtains  of  the  ebony  bed,  so  that  the  Trees  of  the 
Forest  of  This  Life,  thereon  embroidered,  appeared  somewhat 
mournfully  to  wave  their  branches,  while  the  Hart  fled  forward 
and  the  Leopard,  relentless  in  perpetual  pursuit,  followed  close 
behind.  There  was  a  crunching  of  wheels  on  the  gravel,  a 
sound  of  hurried  farewells.  Then  in  a  minute  or  two  more  the 
evening  quiet  held  its  own  again. 

Suddenly  Dickie  flung  himself  down  across  Katherine's  lap, 
his  poor  body  shaken  by  a  tcm[)cst  of  weeping. 

"  Mother,  I  can't  bear  it— I  can't  bear  it,"  he  sobbed.  "  Tell 
me,  does  everybody  do  that  ?  " 

"Do  what,  my  own  precious?"  she  said,  calm  from  very 
excess  of  sorrow.  Later  she  would  weej)  too,  in  the  dark,  lying 
lonely  in  the  cold  comfort  of  that  stalely  bed. 

"  Laugh  at  me,  mother,  mock  at  me  ? "  and  his  voice,  for 
all  that  he  tried  to  control  it,  tore  at  his  throat  and  rose  almost 
to  a  shriek. 


1^6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  VI 

DEALING    WITH    A    PHYSICIAN    OF    THK    BODY    AND    A    PHYSICIAN 

OF    THK    SOUL 

HISTORY  repeats  itself,  and  to  Katherine  just  now  came 
most  unwelcome  example  of  such  repetition.  She  had 
foreseen  that  some  such  crisis  must  arise  as  had  arisen.  Yet 
when  it  arose,  the  crisis  proved  none  the  less  agonising  because 
of  that  foreknowledge.  Two  strains  of  feeling  struggled  within 
her.  A  blinding  sorrow  for  her  child,  a  fear  of  and  shame  at  her 
own  violence  of  anger.  Katherine's  mind  was  of  an  uncom- 
promising honesty.  She  knew  that  her  instinct  had,  for  a  space 
at  least,  been  murderous.  She  knew  that,  given  equal  provoca- 
tion, it  would  be  murderous  again. 

And  this  was,  after  all,  but  the  active,  objective  aspect  of  the 
matter.  The  passive  and  subjective  aspect  showed  danger  also. 
In  her  extremity  Katherine's  soul  cried  out  for  God — for  the 
sure  resting-place  only  to  be  found  by  conscious  union  of  the 
individual  with  the  eternal  will.  But  such  repose  was  denied 
her.  For  her  anger  against  God,  even  while  thus  earnestly 
desiring  Him,  was  even  more  profound  than  her  anger  against  man. 
The  passion  of  those  terrible  early  days  when  her  child's  evil 
fortune  first  became  known  to  her — held  in  check  all  these 
years  by  constant  employment  and  the  many  duties  incident  to 
her  position — returned  upon  her  in  its  first  force.  To  believe 
God  is  not,  leaves  the  poor  human  soul  homeless,  sadly  desolate, 
barren  in  labour  as  is  a  slave.  But  the  sorrow  of  such  belief 
is  but  a  trifle  beside  the  hideous  fear  that  God  is  careless  and 
unjust,  that  virtue  is  but  a  fond  imagination  of  all-too-noble 
human  hearts,  that  the  everlasting  purpose  is  not  good  but  evil 
continually.  And,  haunted  by  such  fears,  Katherine  once  again 
sat  in  outer  darkness.  All  gracious  things  appeared  to  her  as 
illusions  ;  all  gentle  delights  but  as  passing  anodynes  with  which, 
in  his  misery,  man  weakly  tries  to  deaden  the  pain  of  existence. 
She  suffered  a  profound  discouragement. 

And  so  it  seemed  to  her  but  as  part  of  the  cruel  whole  when 
history  repeated  itself  yet  further,  and  Dr.  Knott,  pausing  at  the 
door  of  Richard's  bedroom,  turned  and  said  to  her : — 

"  It  will  be  better,  you  know.  Lady  Calmady,  to  let  him  face  it 
alone.  He'll  feel  it  less  without  you.  Winter  can  give  me  all 
the  assistance  I  want."     I'hen  he  added,  a  queer  smile  playing 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  137 

about  his  loose  lips: — "Don't  be  afraid.     I'll  handle  him  very 
gently.     Probably  I  shan't  hurt  him  at  all — certainly  not  much." 

"Ah  !"  Katherine  said,  under  her  breath. 

"  You  see  it  is  done  by  his  own  wish,"  John  Knott  went  on. 

"  I  know,"  she  answered. 

She  respected  and  trusted  this  man,  entertained  for  him, 
notwithstanding  his  harsh  speech  and  uncouth  exterior,  some- 
thing akin  to  affection.  Yet  remembering  the  part  he  had 
played  in  the  fate  of  the  father,  it  was  very  dreadful  to  her  that 
he  should  touch  the  child.  And  Dr.  Knott  read  her  thought. 
He  did  not  resent  it.  It  was  all  natural  enough  !  From  his 
heart  he  was  sorry  for  her,  and  would  have  spared  her 
had  that  been  possible.  But  he  discriminated  very  clearly 
between  primary  and  secondary  issues,  never  sacrificing,  as  do 
feeble  and  sentimental  persons,  the  former  to  the  latter.  In 
this  case  the  boy  had  a  right  to  the  stage,  and  so  the  mother 
must  stand  in  the  wings.  John  Knott  possessed  a  keen  sense 
of  values  in  the  human  drama  which  the  exigencies  of  his 
profession  so  perpetually  presented  to  him.  He  waited  quietly, 
his  hand  on  the  door-handle,  looking  at  Katherine  from  under  his 
shaggy  eyebrows,  silently  opposing  his  will  to  hers. 

Suddenly  she  turned  away  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  will  not  come  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  right." 

"  But — but — do  you  think  you  can  really  do  anything  to  help 
him,  to  make  him  happier?"  Katherine  asked,  a  desperation  in 
the  tones  of  her  voice. 

"Happier?  Yes,  in  the  long-run,  because  certainty  of 
whatever  kind,  even  certainty  of  failure,  makes  eventually  for 
peace  of  mind." 

"That  is  a  hard  saying." 

"  This  is  a  hard  world." — Dr.  Knott  looked  down  at  the  floor, 
shrugging  his  unwieldy  shoulders.  "  The  sooner  we  learn  to  accept 
that  fact  the  better.  Lady  Cahnady.  I  know  it  is  sharp  discipline, 
but  it  saves  time  and  money,  let  alone  disappointment. — Now  as  to 
all  these  elaborate  contrivances  I've  brought  down  from  London, 
they're  the  very  best  of  their  kind.  But  I  am  bound  to  own  the 
most  ingenious  of  such  arrangements  are  but  clumsy  remedies 
for  natural  deficiency.  Man  hasn't  discovered  how  to  make 
over  his  own  body  yet,  and  never  will.  The  Almighty  will  always 
have  the  whip-hand  of  us  when  it  comes  to  dealing  wilh  flesh 
and  blood.  All  the  same  we've  got  to  try  these  legs  and 
things  " — 

Katherine  winced,  pressing  her  lips  together.     It  was  brutal, 


138  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

surely,  to  speak  so  plainly  ?  But  John  Knott  went  on  quietly, 
commiserating  her  inwardly,  yet  unswerving  in  common  sense. 

"Try  'em  every  one,  and  so  convince  Sir  Richard  one  way 
or  the  other.  This  is  a  turning-point.  So  far  his  general  health 
has  been  remarkably  good,  and  we've  just  got  to  set  our  minds 
to  keeping  it  good.  He  must  not  fret  if  we  can  help  it. 
If  he  frets,  instead  of  developing  into  the  sane,  manly  fellow  he 
should,  he  may  turn  peevish.  Lady  Calmady,  and  grow  up  a 
morbid,  neurotic  lad,  the  victim  of  all  manner  of  brain-sick 
fancies — become  envious,  spiteful,  a  misery  to  others  and  to 
himself." 

"Is  it  necessary  to  say  all  this?"  Kathcrine  asked  loftily. 

Dr.  Knott's  eyes  looked  very  straight  into  hers,  and  there 
were  tears  in  them. 

"  Indeed,  I  believe  it  is,"  he  replied,  "  or,  trust  me,  I  wouldn't 
say  it,  I  take  no  pleasure  in  giving  pain  at  this  time  of  day, 
whether  mental  or  physical.  All  I  want  is  to  spare  pain.  But 
one  must  sacrifice  the  present  to  the  future,  at  times,  you  know — 
use  the  knife  to  save  the  limb.  Now  I  must  go  to  my  patient. 
It  isn't  fair  to  keep  him  waiting  any  longer.  I'll  be  as  quick 
as  I  can.     I  suppose  I  shall  find  you  here  when  I've  finished  ?  " 

As  he  opened  the  door  Dr.  Knott's  heavy  person  showed  in 
all  its  ungainliness  against  the  brightness  of  sunlight  flooding 
Dickie's  room.  And  to  Katherine  he  seemed  hideous  just  then 
— inexorable  in  his  great  common  sense,  in  the  dead  weight  of 
his  personality  and  of  his  will,  as  some  power  of  nature.  He  was 
to  her  the  incarnation  of  things  as  they  are — not  things  as  they 
should  be,  not  things  as  she  so  passionately  desired  they  might  be. 
He  represented  rationalism  as  against  miracle,  intellect  as  against 
imagination,  the  bitter  philosophy  of  experience  as  against  that 
for  which  all  mortals  so  persistently  cry  out  —  namely  the  all- 
consoling  promise  of  extravagant  hope.  As  with  chains  he 
bound  her  down  to  fact.  Right  home  on  her  he  pressed  the 
utter  futility  of  juggling  with  the  actual.  From  the  harsh  truth 
that,  neither  in  matters  practical  nor  spiritual,  is  any  redemption 
without  shedding  of  blood  he  permitted  her  no  escape. 

And  all  this  Katherine's  clear  brain  recognised  and  admitted, 
even  while  her  poor  heart  only  rebelled  the  more  madly.  To  be 
convinced  is  not  to  be  reconciled.  And  so  she  turned  away  from 
that  closed  door  in  a  veritable  tempest  of  feeling,  and  went  out 
into  the  Chapel-Room.  It  was  safer,  her  mind  and  heart  thus 
working,  to  put  a  space  between  herself  and  that  closed  door. 

Just  then  Julius  March  crossed  the  room,  coming  in  from 
the  stair-head.     The  austere  lines  of  his  cassock  emphasised  the 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  139 

height  and  emaciation  of  his  figure.  His  appearance  offered  a 
marked  contrast  to  that  of  the  man  with  whom  Katherine  had 
just  parted.  His  occupation  offered  a  marked  contrast  also. 
He  carried  a  gold  chalice  and  paten,  and  his  head  was  bowed 
reverentially  above  the  sacred  vessels.  His  eyes  were  downcast, 
and  the  dull  pallor  of  his  face  and  of  his  long,  thin  hands  was 
very  noticeable.  He  did  not  look  round,  but  passed  silently,  still 
as  a  dream,  into  the  chapel.  Katherine  paced  the  width  of  the 
great  room,  turned  and  paced  back  and  forth  again  some  half- 
dozen  times,  before  he  emerged  from  the  chapel  door.  In  her 
present  humour  she  did  not  want  him,  yet  she  resented  his 
abstraction.  The  physician  of  the  soul,  like  the  physician  of 
the  body,  appeared  to  her  lamentably  devoid  of  power  to  sustain 
and  give  comfort  at  the  present  juncture. 

This,  it  so  happened,  was  one  of  those  days  when  the  mystic 
joy  of  his  priestly  office  held  Julius  March  forcibly.  He  had 
ministered  to  others,  and  his  own  soul  was  satisfied.  His  ex- 
pression was  exalted,  his  short-sighted  eyes  were  alive  with 
inward  light.  Tired  and  worn,  there  was  still  a  remarkable 
suavity  in  his  bearing.  He  had  come  forth  from  the  holy  of 
holies,  and  the  vision  beheld  there  dwelt  with  him  yet. 

Meanwhile,  brooding  storm  sat  on  Katherine's  brow,  on  her 
lips,  dwelt  in  her  every  movement.  And  something  of  this 
Julius  perceived,  for  his  devotion  to  her  was  intact,  as  was  his 
self-abnegation.  Throughout  all  these  years  he  had  never 
sought  to  approach  her  more  closely.  His  attitude  had 
remained  as  delicately  scrupulous,  untouched  by  worldliness,  or 
by  the  baser  part  of  passion,  as  in  the  first  hour  of  the  discovery 
of  his  love.  Her  near  presence  gave  him  exquisite  pleasure  ;  but, 
save  when  she  needed  his  assistance  in  some  practical  matter,  he 
refused  to  indulge  himself  by  passing  much  time  in  her  society. 
Abstinence  still  remained  his  rule  of  life.  Just  now,  however, 
strong  with  the  mystic  strength  of  his  late  ministrations  and 
perceiving  her  troubled  state,  he  permitted  himself  to  remain 
and  pace  beside  her. 

"  Vou  have  been  out  all  day  ?  "  Katherine  saitl. 

"Ves,  I  stayed  on  to  the  end  with  Rebecca  Light.  They 
sent  for  me  early  this  morning.  She  passed  away  very  peacefully 
in  that  little  attic  at  the  new  lodge  looking  out  into  the  green 
heart  of  the  woods." 

"Ah!  It's  simple  enough  to  die,"  Katherine  said,  "being 
old.     The  difficult  thing  is  to  live,  being  still  young." 

"Has  my  absence  been  inconvenient?  Have  you  wanted 
me?"  Julius   asked. — Those  quiet  hours  spent   in   tlie  humble 


I40  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

death-chamber  suddenly  appeared  to  him  as  an  act  of  possible 
selfishness. 

"Oh  no!"  she  answered  bitterly.  "Why  should  I  want 
you?  Have  I  not  sent  Roger  and  Mary  away?  Am  I  not 
secretly  glad  dear  Marie  de  Mirancourt  is  just  sufficiently  poorly 
to  remain  in  her  room?  When  the  real  need  comes — one 
learns  that  among  all  the  other  merciless  lessons — one  is  best 
by  oneself." 

For  a  while,  only  the  whisper  of  Lady  Calmady's  skirts,  the 
soft,  even  tread  of  feet  upon  the  thick  carpet.  Then  she  said, 
almost  sharply  : — 

"  Dr.  Knott  is  with  Richard." 

"  Ah  !  I  understand,"  Julius  murmured. 

But  Lady  Calmady  took  up  his  words  with  a  certain  heat. 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand.  You  none  of  you  understand, 
and  that  is  why  I  am  better  by  myself.  Mary  and  Roger  in 
their  happiness,  dear  Marie  in  her  saintly  resignation,  and 
you" — Katherine  turned  her  head,  smiled  at  him  in  lovely  scorn 
— "you,  my  dear  Julius,  of  all  men,  what  should  you  know  of 
the  bitter  pains  of  motherhood,  you  who  are  too  good  to  be 
quite  human,  you  who  regard  this  world  merely  as  the  ante- 
chamber of  paradise,  you,  whose  whole  affection  is  set  on  your 
Church — your  God — how  should  you  understand?  Between 
my  experience  and  yours  there  is  a  very  wide  interval.  How 
can  you  know  what  I  suffer — you  who  have  never  loved  ?  " 

Under  the  stress  of  her  excitement  Katherine's  pace 
quickened.  The  whisper  of  her  skirts  grew  to  a  soft  rush. 
Julius  kept  beside  her.  His  head  was  bent  reverently,  even  as 
over  the  sacred  vessels  he  had  so  lately  carried. 

"  I  too  have  loved,"  he  said  at  last. 

Katherine  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"  Really,  Julius  ?  "  she  said. 

Raising  his  head,  he  looked  back  at  her.  This  avowal  gave 
him  a  strange  sense  of  completeness  and  mastery.  So  he  allowed 
his  eyes  to  meet  Katherine's,  he  allowed  himself  to  reckon  with 
her  grace  and  beauty. 

"  Very  really,"  he  answered. 

"But  when?" 

"  Long  ago — and  always." 

"Ah!"  she  said.  Her  expression  had  changed.  Brooding 
storm  no  longer  sat  on  her  brow  and  lips.  She  was  touched. 
For  the  moment  the  weight  of  her  personal  distress  was  lifted. 
Dickie  and  Dr.  Knott  together  in  that  bed-chamber,  experi- 
menting with  unlovely,  mechanical  devices  for  aiding  locomotion 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  141 

and  concealing  the  humiliation  of  deibrmity,  were  almost  for- 
gotten. To  those  who  have  once  loved,  love  must  always 
supremely  appeal.  Julius  appeared  to  her  in  a  new  aspect. 
She  felt  she  had  done  him  injustice.  She  placed  her  hand  on 
his  arm  with  a  movement  of  apology  and  tenderness.  And  the 
man  grew  faint,  trembled,  feeling  her  hand,  seeing  it  lie  white 
and  fair  on  the  sleeve  of  his  black  cassock.  Since  childhood  it 
was  the  first,  the  solitary,  caress  he  had  received. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Julius,"  she  said.  "  I  must  have  pained 
you  at  times,  but  I  did  not  know  this.  I  always  supposed  you 
coldly  indifferent  to  those  histories  of  the  heart  which  mean  so 
much  to  some  of  us  ;  supposed  your  religion  held  you  wholly,  and 
that  you  pitied  us  as  the  wise  pity  the  foolish,  standing  above 
them,  looking  down.  Richard  told  me  many  things  about  you, 
before  he  brought  me  home  here,  but  he  never  told  me  this." 

"  Richard  never  knew  it,"  he  answered,  smiling.  Her  perfect 
unconsciousness  at  once  calmed  and  pained  him.  He  had  kept 
his  secret,  all  these  years,  only  too  well. 

Katherine  turned  and  began  to  pace  again,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  back. 

"  But,  tell  me — tell  me,"  she  said.  "  You  can  trust  me,  you 
know.  I  will  never  speak  of  this  unless  you  speak.  But  if  I 
knew,  it  would  bring  us  nearer  together,  and  that  would  be 
comforting,  perhaps,  to  us  both.  Tell  me,  what  happened? 
Did  she  know,  and  did  she  love  you?  She  must  have  loved 
you,  I  think.     Then  what  separated  you  ?     Did  she  die  ?  " 

"No,  thank  God,  she  did  not  die,"  Julius  said. — He  paused. 
He  longed  to  gain  the  relief  of  fuller  confession,  yet  feared  to 
betray  himself.  "I  believe  she  loved  me  truly  as  a  friend — and 
that  was  sufficient." 

"  Oh  no,  no  ! "  Katherine  cried.  "  Do  not  decline  upon 
sophistries.     That  is  never  sufficient." 

"In  one  sense,  yes — in  another  sense,  no,"  Julius  said.  "It 
was  thus.  I  loved  her  exactly  as  she  was.  Had  she  loved  me 
as  I  loved  her  she  would  have  become  other  than  she  was." 

"  Ah  !  but  surely  you  are  too  ingenious,  too  fastidious  ! " 
Katherinc's  voice  took  tones  of  delicate  remonstrance  and 
pleading.  "That  would  be  your  danger,  in  such  a  case.  Le 
tnieux  est  Vetinemi  du  Oiefi,  and  you  would  always  risk  sacrificing 
the  real  to  the  ideal.  I  am  sorry.  I  would  like  you  to  have 
tasted  the  fulness  of  life.  Even  though  the  days  of  perfect  joy 
are  very  few,  it  is  well  to  have  had  them  " — 

She  threw  back  her  head,  her  eyebrows  drew  together,  and 
her  face  darkened  somewhat. 


142  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Yes,  it  is  well  to  have  had  them,  though  the  memory  of 
them  cuts  one  to  the  very  quick." — Then  her  manner  changed 
again,  gaining  a  touch  of  gaiety.  "  Really  I  am  very  unselfish 
in  wishing  all  this  otherwise,"  she  said,  "  for  it  would  have  been 
a  sore  trial  to  part  with  you.  I  cannot  imagine  Brockhurst 
without  you.  I  should  have  been  in  great  straits  deprived  of 
my  friend  and  counsellor.  And  yet,  I  would  like  you  to  have 
been  very  happy,  dear  Julius." 

Their  pacing  had  just  brought  them  to  the  arched  doorway 
of  the  chapel.  Katherine  stopped,  and  raising  her  arm  leaned 
her  hand  against  the  stone  jamb  of  it  above  her  head. 

"  See,"  she  went  on,  "  I  want  to  be  truly  unselfish.  I  know 
how  generous  you  are.  Perhaps  you  remain  here  out  of  all  too 
great  kindness  towards  my  poor  Dick  and  me.  You  mustn't 
do  that,  Julius.  You  say  she  is  still  living.  Consider — is  it  too 
late  ?  " 

Was  it  indeed  too  late?  All  the  frustrated  manhood  cried 
aloud  in  Julius  March.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
His  carefully  restrained  imagination  ran  riot,  presenting  en- 
chantments. 

And  Katherine,  watching  him,  found  herself  strangely  moved. 
For  it  was  very  startling  to  see  this  so  familiar  figure  under 
so  unfamiliar  an  aspect  —  to  see  Julius  March,  her  every-day 
companion  and  assistant,  his  reticence,  his  priestly  aloofness, 
his  mild  and  courtly  calm,  swept  under  by  a  tide  of  personal 
emotion.  Lady  Calmady  was  drawn  to  him  by  deepened 
sympathy.  Yet  regret  arose  in  her  that  this  man  proved  to  be, 
after  all,  but  as  other  men  are.  She  was  vaguely  disappointed, 
having  derived  more  security  than  she  had  quite  realised  from  his 
apparent  detachment  and  impassibility.  And,  as  an  indirect 
consequence,  her  revolt  against  God  suffered  access  of  bitterness. 
For  not  only  was  He — to  her  seeing — callous  regarding  the  fate 
of  the  many,  but  He  failed  to  support  those  few  most  devoted 
to  His  cause.  In  the  hour  of  their  trial  He  was  careless  even  of 
His  own  elect. 

"  Ah !  I  think  it  is  indeed  by  no  means  too  late  ! "  she 
exclaimed. 

Julius  March  let  his  hands  drop  at  his  sides.  He  gazed  at 
her,  and  her  expression  was  of  wistful  mockery — compassionate 
rather  than  ironical.  Then  he  looked  away  down  the  length  of 
the  chapel.  In  the  warm  afternoon  light,  the  solid  and  rich 
brown  of  the  arcaded  stalls  on  either  hand,  emphasised 
the  harmonious  radiance  of  the  great,  east  window,  a  radiance 
as   of  clear  jewels.  —  Ranks   of   kneeling    saints,    the    gold   of 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  143 

whose  orioles  rose  in  an  upward  curve  to  the  majestic  image 
of  the  Christ  in  the  central  light — a  Christ  risen  and  glorified, 
enthroned,  His  feet  shining  forever  upon  heaven's  sapphire  floor. 
Before  the  altar  hung  three,  silver-gilt  lamps  of  Italian  workman- 
ship, in  the  crimson  cup  of  each  of  which  it  had  so  long  been 
Julius's  pleasure  to  keep  the  tongue  of  flame  constantly  alive. 
The  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  not  hastily  set  aside.  Gazing  on 
these  things,  his  normal  attitude  returned  to  him.  Not  that 
which  he  essentially  was  but  that  which,  by  long  and  careful 
training  of  every  thought,  every  faculty,  he  had  become, 
authoritatively  claimed  him.  His  eyes  fell  from  contemplation 
of  the  glories  of  the  window  to  that  of  the  long,  straight 
folds  of  the  cassock  which  clothed  him.  It  was  hardly  the 
garb  in  which  a  man  goes  forth  to  woo  !  Then  he  looked  at 
Lady  Calmady — she  altogether  seductive  in  her  innocence  and 
in  her  wistful  mockery  as  she  leaned  against  the  jamb  of  the 
door. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  dear  Katherine,"  he  said.  "  It  has 
always  been  too  late." 

"  But  why — why — if  she  is  free  to  listen  ?  " 

"Because  I  am  not  free  to  speak." 

Julius  smiled  at  her.  His  suavity  had  returned,  and  along 
with  it  a  dignity  of  bearing  not  observable  before. 

"  Let  us  walk,"  he  said.  And  then : — "  After  all  I  have 
given  you  a  very  mutilated  account  of  this  matter.  Soon  after  I 
took  orders,  before  I  had  ever  seen  the  very  noble,  to  me  perfect, 
woman  who  unconsciously  revealed  to  me  the  glory  of  human 
love,  I  had  dedicated  my  life,  and  all  my  powers — poor  enough, 
I  fear — of  mind  and  body  to  the  service  of  the  Church.  I  was 
ambitious  in  those  days.  Ambition  is  dead,  killed  by  the  know- 
ledge of  my  own  shortcomings.  I  have  proved  an  unprofitable 
servant — for  which  may  God  in  His  great  mercy  forgive  me. 
But,  while  my  faith  in  myself  has  withered,  my  faith  in  Him  has 
come  to  maturity.  I  have  learned  to  think  very  differently  on 
many  subjects,  and  to  perceive  that  our  Heavenly  Father's 
purposes  regarding  us  are  more  generous,  more  far-reaching, 
more  august,  than  in  my  youthful  ignorance  I  had  ever  dreamed. 
All  things  are  lawful  in  His  sight.  Nothing  is  common  or 
unclean — if  we  have  once  rightly  apprehended  Him,  and  He 
dwells  in  us.  And  yet — yet,  a  vow  once  made  is  binding.  We 
may  not  do  evil  to  gain  however  great  a  good." 

Katherine  listened  in  silence.  The  words  came  with  the 
power  of  immutable  conviction.  She  could  not  believe,  yet  she 
was  glad  to  have  him  believe. 


144  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAUY 

'•  And  that  vow  precludes  marriage?"'  she  said  at  last. 
"  It  does,"  Julius  answered. 

For  a  time  they  paced  again  in  silence.  Then  Lady  Calmady 
spoke,  a  delicate  intimacy  and  affection  in  her  manner,  while 
once  more,  for  a  moment,  she  let  her  hand  rest  on  his  arm. 

"So  Brockhurst  keeps  you — I  keep  you,  dear  Julius,  to 
the  last?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will,  to  the  very  last." 

"  I  am  thankful  for  that,"  she  said.  "  You  must  forgive  me 
if  in  the  past  I  have  been  inconsiderate  at  times.  I  am  afraid 
the  constant  struggle,  which  certain  circumstances  of  necessity 
create,  tends  to  make  me  harsh  and  imperious.  I  carry  a 
trouble,  which  calls  aloud  for  redress,  forever  in  my  arms.  They 
ache  with  the  burden  of  it.  And  there  is  no  redress.  And 
the  trouble  grows  stronger,  alas  !  Its  voice  —  so  dear,  yet  so 
dreaded — grows  louder,  till  it  deafens  me  to  all  other  sounds. 
The  music  of  this  once  beautiful  world  becomes  faint.  Only 
angry  discord  remains.  And  I  become  selfish.  I  am  the 
victim  of  a  fixed  idea.  I  become  heedless  of  the  suffering  of 
those  about  me.  And  you,  my  poor  Julius,  must  have  suffered 
very  much ! " 

"Now,  less  than  ever  before,"  he  answered. — But  even  as 
he  spoke,  Katherine  was  struck  by  his  pallor,  by  the  drawn  look 
of  his  features  and  languor  of  his  bearing. 
"  Ah,  you  have  fasted  all  day  !  "  she  cried. 
"What  matter?"  he  said,  smiling.  "The  body  surely  can 
sustain  a  trifle  of  hunger,  if  the  soul  and  spirit  are  fed.  I  have 
feasted  royally  to-day  in  that  respect.  I  am  strangely  at  ease. 
As  to  baser  sort  of  food,  what  wonder  if  I  forgot  ?  " 

The  door  of  Dickie's  bed-chamber  opened,  letting  in  long 
shafts  of  sunlight,  and  Dr.  Knott  came  slowly  forward.  His 
aspect  was  savage.  Even  his  philosophy  had  been  not  wholly 
proof  against  the  pathos  of  his  patient's  case.  It  irritated  him  to 
fall  from  his  usual  relentlessness  of  common  sense  into  a  melting 
mood.  He  took  refuge  in  sarcasm,  desirous  to  detect  weakness 
in  others,  since  he  was,  unwillingly,  so  disagreeably  conscious  of 
it  in  himself. 

"  ^Vell,  we're  through  with  our  business.  Lady  Calmady,"  he 
said. — "Eh!  Mr.  March,  what's  wrong  with  you?  Putty- 
coloured  skin  and  shortness  of  breath.  A  little  less  prayer  and 
a  little  more  physical  exercise  is  what  you  want.  Successful, 
Lady  Calmady  ? — Umph — I'm  afraid  the  less  said  about  that  the 
better.  Sir  Richard  will  talk  it  out  with  you  himself.  Upset  ? 
Yes,  I  don't  deny  he  is  a  little  upset — and,  like  a  fool,  I'm  upset 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  145 

too.  You  can  go  to  him  now,  Lady  Calmady.  Keep  him 
cheerful,  please,  and  give  him  his  head  as  much  as  you  can." 

John  Knott  watched  her  as  she  moved  away.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  breeches 
pockets. 

"She's  going  to  hear  what  she  won't  much  relish,  poor  thing," 
he  said.  "But  I  can't  help  that.  One  man's  meat  is  another 
man's  poison ;  and  my  affair  is  with  the  boy's  meat,  even  if  it 
should  be  of  a  kind  to  turn  his  mother's  stomach.  He  shall 
have  just  all  the  chance  I  can  get  him,  poor  little  chap. — And 
now,  Mr.  March,  I  propose  to  prescribe  for  you,  for  you  look 
uncommonly  like  taking  a  short-cut  to  heaven,  and,  if  I  know 
anything  about  this  house,  you've  got  your  work  cut  out  for  you 
here  below  for  a  long  time  to  come.  Through  with  this  business  ? 
Pooh  !  we've  only  taken  a  preliminary  canter  as  yet.  That  boy's 
out  of  the  common  in  more  ways  than  one,  and,  cripple  or  no 
cripple,  he's  bound  to  lead  you  all  a  pretty  lively  dance  before 
lie's  done." 


CHAPTER  MI 

AX    AriKMIT    TO    MAKK    THK    JJKST    OF    IT 

THE  day  had  been  hot,  though  the  summer  was  but  young. 
A  wealth  of  steady  sunlight  bathed  the  western  front  of 
the  house.  All  was  notably  still,  save  for  a  droning  of  bees,  a 
sound  of  wood-chopping,  voices  now  and  again,  and  the  squeak 
of  a  wheelbarrow  away  in  the  gardens. 

Richard  lay  on  his  back  upon  the  bed.  He  had  drawn  the 
blue  embroidered  coverlet  up  about  his  waist;  but  his  silk  shirt 
was  thrown  open,  exposing  his  neck  and  chest.  His  arms  were 
flung  up  and  out  across  the  pillow  on  either  side  his  gold-brown, 
close-curled  head.  As  his  mother  entered  he  turned  his  face 
towards  the  open  window.  There  was  vigour  and  distinction  in 
the  profile— in  the  straight  nose,  full  chin,  and  strong  line  of  the 
lower  jaw,  in  the  round,  firm  throat,  and  small  ear  set  close 
against  the  head.  1'he  muscles  of  his  neck  and  arms  were  well 
developed.  Seen  thus,  lying  in  the  quiet  glow  of  the  afternoon 
sunshine,  all  possibility  of  physical  disgrace  seemed  far  enough 
from  Richard  (Jalniady.  He  might  indeed,  not  unfitly,  have  been 
compared  to  one  of  those  nobly  graceful  lads,  who,  upon  the 
frieze  of  some  (Ireek  temple,  set  forth  forever  the  jierfect 
pattern  of  teniperance  and  high  courage,  of  youth  and  health. 
10 


146  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

As  Katherine  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  Richard  thrust  out 
his  left  hand.  She  took  it  in  both  hers,  held  and  stroked  the 
pahn  of  it.  But  for  a  time  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 
For  she  saw  that,  notwithstanding  the  resolute  set  of  his  lips,  his 
breath  caught  in  short  quick  sobs  and  that  his  eyelashes  were 
glued  in  points  by  late  shed  tears.  And,  seeing  this,  Katherine's 
motherhood  arose  and  confronted  her  with  something  of  re- 
proach. It  seemed  to  her  she  had  been  guilty  of  disloyalty  in 
permitting  her  thought  to  be  beguiled  even  for  the  brief  space  of 
her  conversation  with  Julius  March.  She  felt  humbled,  a  little 
in  Dickie's  debt,  since  she  had  not  realised  to  the  uttermost 
each  separate  moment  of  his  trial  as  each  of  those  moments 
passed. 

"  My  darling,  I  am  afraid  Dr.  Knott  has  hurt  you  very  much  ? "' 
she  said  at  last. 

"  Oh  1  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  did  hurt.  He  pulled 
me  about  awfully,  but  I  didn't  mind  that.  I  told  him  to  keep 
on  till  he  made  sure,"  Richard  answered  huskily,  still  turning 
his  face  from  her.  "  But  none  of  those  beastly  legs  and  things 
fitted.  He  could  not  fix  them  so  that  I  could  use  them.  It 
was  horrid.  They  only  made  me  more  helpless  than  before. 
You  see — my — my  feet  are  in  the  way." 

The  last  words  came  to  Katherine  as  a  shock.  The  boy  had 
never  spoken  openly  of  his  deformity,  and  in  thus  speaking  he 
appeared  to  her  to  rend  asunder  the  last  of  those  veils  with  which 
she  had  earnestly  striven  to  conceal  the  disgrace  of  it  from  him. 
She  remained  very  still,  bracing  herself  to  bear — the  while  slowly 
stroking  his  hand.  Suddenly  the  strong,  young  fingers  closed 
hard  on  hers.     Richard  turned  his  head. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "the  doctor  can't  do  anything  for  me. 
It's  no  use.     We've  just  got  to  let  it  be." 

He  set  his  teeth,  choking  a  little,  and  drew  the  back  of  his 
right  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"  It's  awfully  stupid ;  but  somehow  I  never  knew  I  should 
mind  so  much.  I — I  never  did  mind  much  till  just  lately.  It 
began — the  minding,  I  mean — the  day  Uncle  Roger  came  home. 
It  was  the  way  he  looked  at  me,  and  hearing  about  things  he'd 
done.  And  I  had  a  beastly  dream  that  night.  And  it's  all 
grown  worse  since." 

He  paused  a  minute,  making  a  strong  effort  to  speak 
steadily. 

"  I  suppose  it's  silly  to  mind.  I  ought  to  be  accustomed  to 
it  by  this  time.  I've  never  known  anything  else.  But  I  never 
thought  of  all  it  meant  and — and — how  it  looked  to  other  people 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  147 

till  Helen  was  here  and  wanted  me  to  show  her  the  house.  I — 
I  supposed  everyone  would  take  it  for  granted,  as  you  all  do 
here  at  home.  And  then  I'd  a  hope  Dr.  Knott  might  find  a 
way  to  hide  it  and  so  help  me.  But — but  he  can't.  That 
hope's  quite  gone." 

"  My  own  darling,"  Katherine  murmured. 

"Yes,  please  say  that!"  he  cried,  looking  up  eagerly.  "1 
am  your  darling,  mother,  am  I  not,  just  the  same  ?  Dr.  Knott  said 
something  about  you  just  now.  He's  an  awfully  fine  old  chap. 
I  like  him.  He  talked  to  me  for  a  long  time  after  we'd  sent 
Winter  away,  and  he  was  ever  so  kind.  And  he  told  me  it 
was  bad  for  you  too,  you  know  —  for  both  of  us.  I'm  afraid 
I  had  not  thought  much  about  that  before.  I've  been  thinking 
about  it  since.  And  I  began  to  be  afraid  that — that  I  might 
be  a  nuisance,  —  that  you  might  be  ashamed  of  me,  later, 
when  I  am  grown  up — since  I've  always  got  to  be  like  this,  you 
see." 

The  boy's  voice  broke. 

"Mother,  mother,  you'll  never  despise  me,  whoever  does, 
will  you  ?  "  he  sobbed. 

And  it  seemed  to  Lady  Calmady  that  now  she  must  have 
touched  bottom  in  this  tragedy.  There  could  surely  be  no 
farther  to  go?  It  was  well  that  her  mood  was  soft,  that  for  a 
little  while  she  had  ceased  to  be  under  the  dominion  of  her  so 
sadly  fixed  idea.  In  talking  with  Julius  March  she  had  been 
reminded  how  constant  a  quantity  is  sorrow  ;  how  real,  notwith- 
standing their  silence,  are  many  griefs ;  how  strong  is  human 
patience.  And  this  indirectly  had  fortified  her.  \\'rung  with 
anguish  for  the  boy,  she  yet  was  calm.  She  knelt  down  by  the 
bedside  and  put  her  arms  round  him. 

"  Most  precious  one — listen,"  she  said.  "  You  must  never 
ask  me  such  a  question  again.  I  am  your  mother — you  cannot 
measure  all  that  implies,  and  so  you  cannot  measure  the  pain 
your  question  causes  me.  Only  you  must  believe,  l)ecause  I  tell 
it  you,  that  your  mother's  love  will  never  grow  old  or  wear  thin. 
It  is  always  there,  always  fresh,  always  ready.  In  utter  security 
you  can  come  back  to  it  again  and  again.  It  is  like  one  of  thohc 
clear  springs  in  the  secret  places  of  the  deep  woods — you  know 
them  —  which  bubble  up  forever.  Drink,  often  as  you  may, 
however  heavy  the  drought  or  shrunken  the  streams  elsewhere, 
those  springs  remain  full  to  the  very  lip."  -  Her  tone  changed, 
taking  a  tender  jjlayfulncss.  "  A\'hy,  my  Dickie,  you  are  the 
light  of  my  eyes,  my  darling,  the  one  thing  which  makes  me 
still  care  to  live.    You  are  your  father's  gift  to  me.    And  so  every 


148  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

kiss  you  give  me,  every  pretty  word  you  say  to  me,  is  treasured 
up  for  his,  as  well  as  for  your  own,  dear  sake." 

She  leaned  back,  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  beside  his, 
cheek  to  cheek.  Katherine  was  a  young  woman  still — young 
enough  to  have  moments  of  delicate  shyness  in  the  presence  of 
her  son.     She  could  not  look  at  him  now  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  know,  dearest,  if  I  could  take  your  bodily  misfortune 
upon  me,  here,  directly,  and  give  you  my  wholeness,  I  would  do 
it  more  readily,  with  greater  thankfulness  and  delight  than  I 
have  ever  done  anything  in  " — 

But  Richard  raised  his  hand  and  laid  it,  almost  violently, 
upon  her  mouth. 

"  Oh,  stop,  mother,  stop  ! "  he  cried.  "  Don't — it's  too 
dreadful  to  think  of." 

He  flung  away,  and  lay  at  as  far  a  distance  as  the  width  of 
the  bed  would  allow,  gazing  at  her  in  angry  protest. 

"  You  can't  do  that.  But  you  don't  suppose  I'd  let  you  do 
it  even  if  you  could,"  he  said  fiercely.  Then  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  sunny  western  window  again. — -"  I  like  to  know  that  you're 
beautiful  anyhow,  mother,  all — all  over,"  he  said. 

There  followed  a  long  silence  between  them.  Lady  Calmady 
still  knelt  by  the  bedside.  But  she  drew  herself  up,  rested  her 
elbows  on  the  bed  and  clasped  her  hands  under  her  chin.  And 
as  she  knelt  there  something  of  proud  comfort  came  to  her. 
For  so  long  she  had  sickened,  fearing  the  hour  when  Richard 
should  begin  clearly  to  gauge  the  extent  of  his  own  ill-luck ;  yet, 
now  the  first  shock  of  plain  speech  over,  she  experienced  relief. 
For  the  future  they  could  be  honest,  she  and  he,— so  she  thought, 
— and  speak  heart  to  heart.  Moreover,  in  his  so  bitter  distress, 
it  was  to  her — not  to  Mary,  his  good  comrade,  not  to  Roger 
Ormiston,  the  Ulysses  of  his  fancy — that  the  boy  had  turned. 
He  was  given  back  to  her,  and  she  was  greatly  gladdened  by  that. 
She  w^as  gladdened  too  by  Richard's  last  speech,  by  his  angry 
and  immediate  repudiation  of  the  bare  mention  of  any  personal 
gain  which  should  touch  her  with  loss.  Katherine's  eyes  kindled 
as  she  knelt  there  watching  her  son.  For  it  was  very  much  to 
find  him  thus  chivalrous,  hotly  sensitive  of  her  beauty  and  the 
claims  of  her  womanhood.  In  instinct,  in  thought,  in  word,  he 
had  shown  himself  a  very  gallant,  high-bred  gentleman — child 
though  he  was.  And  this  gave  Katherine  not  only  proud  comfort 
in  the  present,  but  cheered  the  future  with  hope. 

"  Look  here,  Dickie  darling,"  she  said  softly  at  last,  "  tell 
me  a  little  more  about  your  talk  with  Dr.  Knott." 

"Oh!    he   was   awfully   kind,"   Richard    answered,    turning 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  149 

towards  her  again,  while  his  face  brightened.     "  He  said  some 
awfully  jolly  things  to  me."' 

The  boy  put  out  his  hand  and  began  playing  with  the 
bracelets  on  Katherine's  wrists.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  them 
as  he  fingered  them. 

"  He  told  me  I  was  very  strong  and  well  made — except,  of 
course,  for  it.  And  that  I  was  not  to  imagine  myself  ill  or 
invalidy,  because  I'm  really  less  ill  than  most  people,  you  know. 
And — and  he  said — you  won't  think  me  foolish,  mother,  if  I  tell 
you? — he  said  I  was  a  very  handsome  fellow." 

Richard  glanced  up  quickly,  while  his  colour  deepened. 

"  Am  I  really  handsome  ?  "  he  asked. 

Katherine  smiled  at  him. 

"Yes,  you  are  very  handsome,  Dickie.  You  have  always 
been  that.  You  were  a  beautiful  baby,  a  beautiful  little  child. 
And  now,  every  day,  you  grow  more  like  your  father.  I  can't 
quite  talk  about  him,  my  dear — but  ask  Uncle  Roger — ask  Marie 
de  Mirancourt  what  he  was  when  she  knew  him  first.'' 

The  boy's  face  flashed  back  her  smile,  as  the  sea  does  the 
sunlight. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  but  that's  good  news  ! "  he  said.  He  lay  quite 
still  on  his  back  for  a  litde  while,  thinking  about  it. 

"That  seems  to  give  one  a  shove,  you  know,"  he  remarked 
presently.  Then  he  fell  to  playing  with  her  bracelets  again. 
"After  all,  I've  got  a  good  many  shoves  to-day,  mother.  iJr. 
Knott's  a  regular  champion  shover.  He  told  me  about  a 
number  of  people  he'd  known  who  had  got  smashed  up  some- 
how, or  who'd  always  had  something  wrong,  you  know — and 
how  they'd  put  a  good  face  on  it  and  hadn't  let  it  interfere,  but 
had  done  things  just  the  same.  And  he  told  me  I'd  just  got  to 
be  plucky — he  knew  I  could  if  I  tried — and  not  let  it  interfere 
either.  He  told  me  I  mustn't  be  soft,  or  lazy,  because  doing 
things  is  more  difficult  for  me  than  for  other  people.  But  that 
I'd  just  got  to  j)ut  my  back  into  it,  and  go  in  and  win.  And  I 
told  him  I  would — and  you'll  hel[)  mc,  mummy,  won't  you?" 

"  Yes,  darling,  yes,"  Lady  Calmady  said. 

"  I  want  to  begin  at  once,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  looking 
hard  at  the  bracelets.  "I  shouldn't  like  to  be  unkind  to  her, 
mother,  but  do  you  think  Clara  would  give  mc  up  ?  I  don't 
need  a  nurse  now.  It's  rather  silly.  May  one  of  the  men- 
servants  valet  me?  I  should  like  Winter  best,  because  he's  been 
here  always,  and  I  shouldn't  feel  shy  with  him.  Would  it  bore 
you  awfully  to  speak  about  that  now,  so  tliat  he  might  begin 
to-night  ?  " 


ISO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Lady  Calmady's  brave  smile  grew  a  trifle  sad.  The  boy  was 
less  completely  given  back  to  her  than  she  had  fondly  supposed. 
This  day  was  after  all  to  introduce  a  new  order.  And  the  woman 
always  pays.  She  was  to  pay  for  that  advance,  so  was  the 
devoted  handmaiden,  Clara.  Still  the  boy  must  have  his  way — 
were  it  even  towards  a  merely  imagined  good. 

"Very  well,  dearest,  I  will  settle  it,"  she  answered. 

"  You  don't  mind,  though,  mother  ?  " 

Katherine  stroked  the  short,  curly  hair  back  from  his  fore- 
Lead. 

"  I  don't  mind  anything  that  promises  to  make  you  happier, 
Dickie,"  she  said.  "  What  else  did  you  and  Dr.  Knott  settle — 
anything  else?" 

Richard  waited,  then  he  turned  on  his  elbow  and  looked  full 
and  very  earnestly  at  her. 

"Yes,  mother,  we  did  settle  something  more.  And  some- 
thing that  I'm  afraid  you  won't  ,like.  But  it  would  make  me 
happier  than  anything  else — it  would  make  all  the  difference 
that — that  can  be  made,  you  know." 

He  paused,  his  expression  very  firm  though  his  lips  quivered. 

"  Dr.  Knott  wants  me  to  ride." 

Katherine  drew  back,  stood  up,  threw  out  her  hands 
as  though  to  keep  off  some  actual  and  tangible  object  of 
offence. 

"Not  that,  Richard!"  she  cried.  "Anything  in  the  world 
rather  than  that !  " 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly,  yet  with  a  certain  determination, 
for  the  child  was  dying  fast  in  him  and  the  forceful  desires  and 
intentions  of  youth  growing. 

"  Don't  say  I  mustn't,  mother.     Pray,  pray  don't,  because  " — 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  overtaken  by  the  old  habit 
of  obedience,  yet  he  did  not  lower  iiis  eyes. 

But  Lady  Calmady  made  no  response.  For  the  moment  she 
was  outraged  to  the  point  of  standing  apart  even  from  her  child. 
For  a  moment,  even  motherhood  went  down  before  purely 
personal  feeling — and  this,  by  the  irony  of  circumstance,  imme- 
diately after  motherhood  had  made  supreme  confession  of  immut- 
ability. But  remembering  her  husband's  death,  remembering 
the  source  of  all  her  child's  misfortune,  it  appeared  to  her 
indecent,  a  wanton  insult  to  all  her  past  suffering,  that  such  a 
proposition  should  be  made  to  her.  And,  in  a  flash  of  cruelly 
vivid  perception,  she  knew  how  the  boy  would  look  on  a  horse, 
the  grotesque,  to  the  vulgar  wholly  absurd,  spectacle  he  must, 
notwithstanding  his  beauty,  necessarily  present     For  a  moment 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  151 

the  completeness  of  love  failed  before  pride  touched  to  the  very 
quick. 

"  But,  how  can  you  ride?"  she  said.  "  My  poor  child,  think 
— how  is  it  possible  ?  " 

Richard  sat  upright,  pressing  his  hands  down  on  the  bed- 
clothes on  either  side  to  steady  himself.  The  colour  rushed 
over  his  face  and  throat. 

"It  is  possible,  mother,"  he  answered  resolutely,  "or  Dr. 
Knott  would  never  have  talked  about  it.  He  couldn't  have  been 
so  unkind.  He  drew  me  the  plan  of  a  saddle.  He  said  I  was 
to  show  it  to  Uncle  Roger  to-night.  Of  course  it  won't  be  easy 
at  first,  but  I  don't  care  about  that.  And  Chifney  would  teach 
me.  I  know  he  would.  He  said  the  other  day  he'd  make  a 
sportsman  of  me  yet." 

"  When  did  you  talk  with  Chifney  ?  " — Lady  Calmady  spoke 
very  quietly,  but  there  was  that  in  her  tone  which  came  near 
frightening  the  boy.  It  required  all  his  daring  to  answer  honestly 
and  at  once. 

"  I  talked  to  him  the  day  Aunt  Charlotte  and  Helen  were  here. 
I — I  went  down  to  the  stables  with  him  and  saw  all  the  horses." 

"Then  either  you  or  he  did  very  wrong,"  Lady  Calmady 
remarked. 

"  It  was  my  fault,  mother,  all  my  fault.  Chifney  would  have 
ridden  on,  but  I  stopped  him.  Chaplin  tried  to  prevent  me.  I 
— I  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  I  meant  to  go.  I — I 
saw  all  the  horses,  and  they  were  splendid,"  he  added,  enthusiasm 
gaining  o\er  fear. — "  I  saw  the  stables,  and  the  weighing-room, 
and  everything.  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  before.  I 
told  Chaplin  I  would  tell  you,  because  he  ought  not  to  be 
blamed,  you  know.  I  did  mean  to  tell  you  directly  I  came  in. 
But  all  those  people  were  here." — Richard's  face  darkened.  "  And 
you  remember  what  happened?  That  put  everything  else  out 
of  my  head."— A  pause.    Then  he  said  : — "  Are  you  very  angry  ?  " 

Katherine  made  no  reply.  She  moved  away  round  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  stood  at  the  sunny  window  in  silence.  Bitter- 
ness of  hot  humiliation  possessed  her.  Heretofore,  whatever  her 
trial,  she  had  been  mistress  of  the  situation ;  she  had  reigned  a 
queen-mother,  her  authority  undisputed.  And  now  it  appeared 
her  kingdom  was  in  revolt,  conspiracy  was  rife.  Richard's 
will  and  hers  were  in  conflict;  and  Richard's  will  must  eventu- 
ally obtain,  since  he  would  eventually  be  master.  Already 
courtiers  bowed  to  that  will.  All  this  was  in  her  mind.  And  a 
wcmnding  of  fc(,'ling,  far  deeper  and  more  intimate  than  this  -  -since 
Katherine's  nobility  of  cliurucler  was  great  and  the  worldly  aspect, 


152  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  greed  of  personal  power  and  undisputed  rule,  could  not  affect 
her  for  long.  It  wounded  her,  as  a  slight  upon  the  memory  of 
the  man  she  had  so  wholly  loved,  that  this  first  conflict  between 
Richard  and  herself  should  turn  on  the  question  of  horses  and 
the  racing  stable.  The  irony  of  the  position  appeared  unpardon- 
able. And  then,  the  vision  of  poor  Richard — her  darling,  whom 
she  had  striven  so  jealously  to  shield  ever  since  the  day,  over 
thirteen  years  ago,  when  undressing  her  baby  she  had  first  looked 
upon  its  malformed  limbs — Richard  riding  forth  for  all  the  staring, 
mocking  world  to  see,  again  arose  before  her. 

Thinking  of  all  this,  Katherine  gazed  out  over  the  stately 
home  scene — grass  plot  and  gardens,  woodland  and  distant  land- 
scape, rich  in  the  golden  splendour  of  steady  sunshine — with 
smarting  eyes  and  a  sense  of  impotent  misery  that  wrapped  her 
about  as  a  burning  garment.  The  boy  was  beginning  to  go  his 
own  way.  And  his  way  was  not  hers.  And  those  she  had 
trusted  were  disloyal,  helping  him  to  go  it.  Alone,  in  retirement, 
she  had  borne  her  great  trouble  with  tremendous  courage.  But 
how  should  she  bear  it  under  changed  conditions,  amid  publicity, 
gossip,  comment  ? 

Dickie,  meanwhile,  had  let  himself  drop  back  against  the 
pillows.  He  set  his  teeth  and  waited.  It  was  hard.  An  oppor- 
tunity of  escape  from  the  galling  restraints  of  his  infirmity  had 
been  presented  to  him,  and  his  mother — his  mother  after  promise 
given,  after  the  sympathy  of  a  lifetime,  his  mother,  in  whom  he 
trusted  absolutely — was  unwilling  he  should  accept  it  !  As  he 
lay  there  all  the  desperate  longing  for  freedom  and  activity  that 
had  developed  in  him  of  late — all  the  passion  for  sport,  for  that 
primitive,  half-savage  manner  of  life,  that  intimate,  if  somewhat 
brutal,  relation  to  nature,  to  wild  creatures  and  to  the  beasts 
whom  man  by  centuries  of  usage  has  broken  to  his  service,  which 
is  the  special  heritage  of  Englishmen  of  gentle  blood — sprang  up 
in  Richard,  strong,  all-compelling.  He  must  have  his  part  in 
all  this.  He  would  not  be  denied.  He  cried  out  to  her 
imperiously : — 

"  Mother,  speak  to  me  !  I  haven't  done  anything  really  wrong. 
I've  a  right  to  what  any  other  boy  has — as  far  as  I  can  get  it. 
Don't  you  see  riding  is  just  the  one  thing  to — to  make  up — to 
make  a  man  of  me  ?     Don't  you  see  that  ?  " 

He  sat  bolt  upright,  stretching  out  his  arms  to  her  in  fierce 
appeal,  while  the  level  sunshine  touched  his  bright  hair  and 
wildly  eager  face. 

"Mummy,  mummy  darling,  don't  you  see?  Try  to  see. 
You  can't  want  to  take  away  my  one  chance  ! " 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  153 

Katherine  turned  at  that  reiterated  cry,  and  her  heart  melted 
within  her.  The  boy  was  her  own,  bone  of  her  bone,  flesh  of 
her  flesh.  From  her  he  had  hfe.  From  her  he  had  also  lifelong 
disgrace  and  deprivation.  Was  there  anything  then,  which,  he 
asking,  she  could  refuse  to  give  ?  She  cast  herself  on  her  knees 
beside  the  bed  again  and  buried  her  face  in  the  sheet. 

"  My  precious  one,"  she  sobbed,  "  forgive  me.  I  am  ashamed, 
for  I  have  been  both  harsh  and  weak.  I  said  I  would  help  you, 
and  then  directly  I  fail  you.     Forgive  me." 

And  the  boy  was  amazed,  speechless  at  first,  seeing  her 
broken  thus ;  shamed  in  his  turn  by  the  humility  of  her  attitude. 
To  his  young  chivalry  it  was  an  impiety  to  look  upon  her 
tears. 

"  Please  don't  cry,  mother,"  he  entreated  tremulously,  a 
childlike  simplicity  of  manner  taking  him. — "  Don't  cry — it  is 
dreadful.  I  never  saw  you  cry  before." — Then,  after  a  pause, 
he  added: — "And — never  mind  about  my  riding.  I  don't  so 
very  much  care  about  it — really,  I  don't  believe  I  do — after  all." 

At  that  dear  lie  Katherine  raised  her  bowed  head,  a  wonder- 
ful sweetness  in  her  tear-stained  face,  tender  laughter  upon  her 
lips.  She  drew  the  boy's  hands  on  to  her  shoulders,  clasped  her 
hands  across  his  extended  arms,  and  kissed  him  upon  the  mouth. 

"No,  no,  my  beloved,  you  shall  ride,''  she  said.  "  \'ou  shall 
have  your  saddle — twenty  thousand  saddles  if  you  want  them  ! 
We  will  talk  to  Uncle  Roger  and  Chifney  to-night.  All  shall  be 
as  you  wish." 

"  I3ut  you're  not  angry,  mother,  any  more?"  he  asked,  a  little 
bewildered  by  her  change  of  tone  and  by  the  passion  of  her 
lovely  looks  and  speech. 

Katherine  shook  her  head,  and  still  that  tender  laughter 
curved  her  lips. 

"  No,  I  am  never  going  to  be  angry  any  more — with  you  at 
least,  Dick.  I  must  learn  to  be  plucky  too.  A  pair  of  us, 
Dickie,  trying  to  keep  up  one  another's  pluck  !  Only  let  us  go 
forward  hand  in  hand,  you  and  I,  and  then,  however  desperate 
our  doings,  I  at  least  shall  be  content." 


154  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  MIX 

TKLLIXG,    IXCIDKXTALLY,    OF    A    BKOKKX-J)0\VX    I'OSTBOV 
AND    A    COUNTKV    I'AIK 

THE  Brockhurst  mail-phaeton  waited,  in  the  shade  of  the  three 
large  sycamores,  before  Appleyard's  shop  at  Farley  Row. 
A  groom  stood  stiff  and  straight  at  the  horses'  heads.  While 
upon  the  high  driving-seat,  a  trifle  excited  by  the  suddenness 
of  his  elevation,  sat  Richard.  He  held  the  reins  in  his  right 
hand,  and  stretched  his  left  to  get  the  cramp  out  of  his  fingers. 
His  arms  ached — there  was  no  question  about  it.  He  had 
never  driven  a  pair  before,  and  the  horses  needed  a  lot  of 
driving.  For  the  wind  was  gusty,  piling  up  heavy  masses  of 
black-purple  rain-cloud  in  the  south-east.  It  made  the  horses 
skittish  and  unsteady,  and  Dickie  found  it  was  just  all  he 
could  do  to  hold  them,  so  that  Chifney's  reiterated  admonition, 
"Keep  'em  well  in  hand,  Sir  Richard,"  had  been  not  wholly 
easy  to  obey. 

From  out  the  open  shop-door  came  mingled  odour  of  new 
leather  and  of  horse  clothing.  Within  Mr.  Chifney  delivered 
himself  of  certain  orders ;  while  Appleyard — a  small,  fair  man, 
thin  of  nose,  a  spot  of  violent  colour  on  either  cheek-bone — 
skipped  before  him  lamb-like,  in  a  fury  of  complacent  intelligence. 
For  it  was  not  every  day  so  notable  a  personage  as  the  Brockhurst 
trainer  crossed  his  threshold.  To  Josiah  Appleyard,  indeed — 
not  to  mention  his  two  apprentices  stretching  eyes  and  ears  from 
the  back-shop,  to  catch  any  chance  word  of  Mr.  Chifney's  con- 
versation— it  appeared  as  though  the  gods  very  really  con- 
descended to  visit  the  habitations  of  men.  While  Mrs.  Apple- 
yard,  peeping  from  behind  the  wire  blind  of  the  parlour,  had — as 
she  afterwards  repeatedly  declared — "  felt  her  insides  turn  right 
over,"  when  she  saw  the  carriage  draw  up.  The  conversation  was 
prolonged  and  low-toned.  For  the  order  was  of  a  peculiar  and 
confidential  character,  demanding  much  explanation  on  the  one 
part,  much  application  on  the  other.  It  was  an  order,  in  short, 
wholly  flattering  to  the  self-esteem  of  the  saddler,  both  as  tribute 
to  his  social  discretion  and  his  technical  skill.  Thus  did  Josiah 
skip  lamb-like,  being  glad. 

Meanwhile,  Richard  Calmady  waited  without,  resting  his 
aching  arms,  gazing  down  the  wide,  dusty  street,  his  senses  lulled 
by  the  flutter  of  tlie  sycamore  leaves  overhead.     The  said  street 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  155 

offered  but  small  matter  of  interest.  For  Farley  Row  is  one  of 
those  dead-alive,  little  towns  on  the  borders  of  the  forest  land, 
across  which  progress,  even  at  the  time  in  question,  1S56,  had 
written  Ichabod  in  capital  letters.  During  the  early  years  of 
the  century  some  ninety  odd  coaches,  plying  upon  the  London 
and  Portsmouth  road,  would  stop  to  change  horses  at  the 
AVhite  Lion  in  the  course  of  each  twenty-four  hours.  That 
was  the  golden  age  of  the  Row.  Horns  twanged,  heavy 
wheels  rumbled,  steaming  teams  were  led  away,  with  drooping 
heads,  into  the  spacious  inn  yard,  and  fresh  horses  stepped 
out  cheerily  to  take  their  place  between  the  traces.  The 
next  stage  across  Spendle  Flats  was  known  as  a  risky  one. 
Legends  of  Claude  Duval  and  his  fellow-highwaymen  still  haunt 
the  woods  and  moors  that  top  the  long  hill  going  north-eastward. 
And  the  passengers  by  those  ninety  coaches  were  wont  to  recover 
themselves  from  terrors  escaped,  or  fortify  themselves  against 
terrors  to  come,  by  plentiful  libations  at  the  bar  of  the  handsome 
red-brick  inn.  The  house  did  a  roaring  trade.  But  now  the 
traffic  upon  the  great  road  had  assumed  a  local  and  altogether 
undemonstrative  character.  The  coaches  had  fallen  into  lumber,^ 
the  spanking  teams  had  each  and  all  made  their  squalid  last 
journey  to  the  knacker's.  And  the  once  famous  Gentlemen  of  the- 
Road  had  long  lain  at  rest  in  Mother  Earth's  lap — sleeping  there 
none  the  less  peacefully  because  the  necks  of  many  of  them  had 
suffered  a  nasty  rick  from  the  hangman's  rope,  and  because  the 
hard-trodden  pavement  of  the  prison-yard  covered  them. 

The  fine  stables  of  the  White  Lion  stood  tenantless,  now,  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end.  Rats  scampered,  and  bats  squeaked  in 
unlovely  ardours  of  courtship,  about  the  ranges  of  empty  stalls 
and  cobweb-hung  rafters.  Yet  one  ghost  from  out  the  golden 
age  haunted  the  place  still — a  lean,  withered,  bandy-legged,  little 
stick  of  a  man,  arrayed  in  frayed  and  tarnished  splendour  of  sky- 
blue  waist-jacket,  silver  lace,  and  jackboots — of  which  the  soles 
and  upper  leathers  threatened  speedy  and  final  divorce.  In  all: 
weathers  this  bit  of  human  wreckage — Jackie  Deeds  by  name — 
might  be  seen  wandering  aimlessly  about  the  vacant  yard,  or 
seated  upon  the  bench  beside  the  portico  of  the  silent,  bow- 
windowed  inn,  pulling  at  a,  too  often  empty,  clay-pipe  and 
spitting  automatically. 

Over  Richard,  tender-hearted  as  yet  towards  all  creatures 
whom  nature  or  fortune  had  treated  cavalierly,  the  decrepit 
postboy  exercised  a  fascination.  One  day,  when  driving  through 
the  Row  with  Mary  Cathrarl,  he  had  succeeded  in  establishing 
relations  with  Jackie  Deeds  through  the  medium  of  a  half-crown. 


156  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  now,  as  he  waited  beneath  the  rustHng  sycamoresj  it  was 
with  a  sensation  of  quick,  yet  half-shy,  pleasure,  that  he  saw  the 
disreputable  figure  lurch  out  of  the  inn  yard,  stand  for  a  minute 
shading  eyes  with  hand  while  making  observations,  and  then 
hobble  across  the  street,  touching  the  peak  of  a  battered,  black- 
velvet  cap  as  it  advanced. 

"  Be  'e  come  to  zee  the  show,  sir  ?  "  the  old  man  coughed  out, 
peering  with  dim,  blear  eyes  up  into  the  boy's  fresh  face. 

"  No,  we've  come  about  something  from  Appleyard's.  1 — I 
didn't  know  there  was  a  show." 

"  Oh  !  bain't  there  though.  Sir  Richard  !  I  tell  'e  there  be  a 
prime  sight  of  a  show.  There  be  monkeys  down  town,  and  dorgs 
what  dances  on  their  'inder  legs,  and  gurt  iron  cages  chock-full 
er  wild  beastises,  by  what  they  tells  me." 

Dickie,  feeling  anxiously  in  his  pockets  for  some  coin  of 
sufficient  size  to  be  worthy  of  Mr.  Deeds'  acceptance,  ejaculated 
involuntarily  : — "  Oh  !  are  there  ?    I'd  give  anything  to  see  them." 

"  Sixpence  'ud  do  most  er  they  'ere  shows,  I  expect.  The 
wild  beastises  'ud  run  into  a  shilling  may  be." — The  old  postboy 
made  a  joyless,  creaking  sound,  bearing  but  slightest  affinity  to 
laughter.  "  But  you  'ud  see  your  way  round  more'n  a  shilling, 
Sir  Richard.  A  terrible,  rich,  young  gentleman,  by  what  they 
tells  me." 

Something  a  trifle  malicious  obtained  in  this  attempt  at 
jocosity,  causing  Dickie  to  bend  down  rather  hastily  over  the 
wheel,  and  thrust  his  offering  into  the  crumpled,  shaky  hands. 

"There,"  he  said.  "Oh!  it's  nothing.  I'm  so  pleased  you 
— you  don't  mind.     Where  do  you  say  this  show  is  ?  " 

"Gor  a'mighty  bless  'e,  sir,"  the  old  man  whimpered,  with  a 
change  of  tone.  "Tain't  every  day  poor  old  Jackie  Deeds  runs 
across  a  rich,  young  gentleman  as  '11  give  him  'arf  a  crown. 
Times  is  bad,  mortal  bad — couldn't  be  much  wuss." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  Richard  answered.  He  felt  apologetic,  as 
though  in  some  manner  responsible  for  the  decay  of  the  coaching 
system  and  his  companion's  fallen  estate. 

"Mortal  bad,  couldn't  be  no  wuss." 

"I'm  very  sorry.  But  about  the  show— ^where  is  it,  please?" 
the  boy  asked  again,  a  little  anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Oh  !  that  there  show.  Tain't  much  of  a  show  neither,  by 
what  they  tells  me." 

Mr.  Deeds  spoke  with  sudden  irritability.  Uplifted  by  the 
possession  of  half  a  crown,  he  became  contemptuous  of  the 
present,  jealous  of  the  past  when  such  coin  was  more  plentiful 
with  him. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  157 

"  Not  much  of  a  show,"  he  repeated.  "  The  young  *uns  'II 
crack  up  most  anything  as  comes  along.  But  that's  their 
stoopidness.  Never  zee'd  nothing  better.  Law  bless  'e,  this  ain't 
a  patch  on  the  shows  I've  a-zeen  in  my  day.  Cock-fightings, 
and  fellows — wi'  a  lot  er  money  laid  on  'em  by  the  gentry  too — 
a-pounding  of  each  other  till  there  weren't  an  inch  above  the  belt 
of  'em  as  weren't  bloody.  And  the  Irish  giant,  and  dwarfs  'ad 
over  from  France.  They  tell  me  most  Frencheys  's  made  that  way. 
Ole  Boney  'isself  wasn't  much  of  a  one  to  look  at.  And  I  can 
mind  a  calf  wi'  two  'eads — 'ud  eat  wi'  both  mouths  at  once,  and 
all  the  food  'ud  go  down  into  the  same  belly.  And  a  man  wi' 
no  arms,  never  'ad  none,  by  what  they  used  to  tell  me  " — 

"  Ah  !  "  Richard  exclaimed  quickly. 

"  No,  never  'ad  none,  and  yet  'ud  play  the  drum  wi'  'is  toes 
and  fire  off  a  horse  pistol.  Lor,  you  would  er  laughed  to  'ave 
zeen  'im.     'E  made  fine  sport  for  the  folks  'e  did." 

Jackie  Deeds  had  recovered  his  good-humour.  He  peered 
up  into  the  boy's  face  again  maliciously,  and  broke  into  cheer- 
less, creaking  merriment. 

"  Oor  a'mighty  'as  'is  jokes  too,"  he  said.  "  I'm  thinking,  by 
tlie  curousmade  creeturs  'e  sends  along  sometimes." 

"  Chifney,"  Richard  called  imperatively.  "  Chifney,  are  you 
nearly  ready  ?  ^^'e  ought  to  get  home.  There's  a  storm  coming 
up." 

"Well,  we  shall  get  that  matter  of  the  saddle  done  right 
enough,  Sir  Richard,"  the  trainer  remarked  presently,  as  the 
carriage  bowled  up  the  street.  "  Don't  be  too  free  with  the 
whip,  sir. — Steady,  steady  there. — Mind  the  donkey-cart. — Bear 
away  to  the  right.  Don't  let  'em  get  above  themselves.  Excuse 
me,  Sir  Richard." 

He  leaned  forward  and  laid  both  hands  quietly  on  the  reins. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  think  you'd  better  let  Henry 
lead  the  horses  past  all  this  variety  business." 

The  end  of  the  street  was  reached.  On  either  hand  small  red 
or  wliite  houses  trend  away  in  a  broken  line  along  the  edge  of  a 
flat,  grass  common,  backed  by  plantations  of  pollarded  oak  trees. 
In  the  foreground,  fringing  the  broad  roadway,  were  booths, 
tents,  and  vans.  And  tlie  staring  colours  of  these  last,  raw  reds 
and  yellows,  the  blue  smoke  beating  down  from  their  little 
stove-pipe  chimneys,  the  dirty  white  of  tent  flaps  and  awnings, 
.stood  out  harshly  in  a  flare  of  stormy  sunlight  against  the  solid 
green  of  the  oaks  and  uprolling  masses  of  black-puiple  cloud. 

Here  indeed  was  the  show.  J5ut  to  Richard  Calmady's  eyes 
it  lacked  disappointingly  in  attraction.     His  ner\'es  were  some- 


158  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Tvhat  a-quiver.  All  the  coarse  detail,  all  the  unlovely  founda- 
tions, of  the  business  of  pleasure  were  rather  distressingly 
obvious  to  his  sight.  A  merry-go-round  was  in  full  activity — 
wooden  horses  and  most  unseaworthy  boats  describing  a  jerky 
•circle  to  the  squeaking  of  tin  whistles  and  purposeless  thump- 
ings  of  a  drum.  Close  by  a  crop-eared  lurcher,  tied  beneath  one 
of  the  vans,  dragged  choking  at  his  chain  and  barked  himself 
frantic  under  the  stones  and  teasing  of  a  knot  of  idle  boys.  A 
half-tipsy  slut  of  a  woman  threatened  a  child,  who,  in  soiled 
tights  and  spangles,  crouched  against  the  muddy  hind-wheel 
of  a  waggon,  tears  dribbling  down  his  cheeks,  his  arm  raised 
to  ward  off  the  impending  blow.  From  the  menagerie — an 
amorphous  huddle  of  grey  tents,  ranged  behind  a  flight  of 
wooden  steps  leading  up  to  an  open  gallery  hung  with  advertise- 
ments of  the  many  attractions  within — came  the  hideous  laughter 
of  a  hyena,  and  the  sullen  roar  of  a  lion  weary  of  the  rows  of 
stolid  English  faces  staring  daily,  hourly,  between  the  bars  of 
his  foul  and  narrow  cage,  heart-sick  with  longing  for  sight  of 
the  open,  starlit  heaven  and  the  white-domed,  Moslem  tpmbs 
amid  the  prickly,  desert  thickets  and  plains  of  clean,  hot  sand. 
On  the  edge  of  the  encampment  horses  grazed — sorry  beasts 
for  the  most  part,  galled,  broken-kneed  and  spavined,  weary  and 
heart-sick  as  the  captive  lion.  But  weary  not  from  idleness,  as 
he.  Weary  from  heavy  loads  and  hard  travelling  and  scant 
provender.     Sick  of  collar  and  whip  and  reiterated  curses. 

About  the  tents  and  booths,  across  the  grass,  and  along  the 
roadway,  loitered  a  sad-coloured,  country  crowd.  Even  to  the 
children,  it  took  its  pleasure  slowly  and  silently ;  save  in  the  case 
of  a  hulking,  young  carter  in  a  smock-frock,  who,  being  pretty 
far  gone  in  hquor,  alternately  shouted  bawdy  songs  and  offered 
invitation  to  the  company  generally  to  come  on  and  have  its 
head  punched. 

Such  were  the  pictures  that  impressed  themselves  upon 
Richard's  brain,  as  Henry  led  the  dancing  carriage-horses  up 
the  road.  And  it  must  be  owned  that  from  this  first  sight 
of  life,  as  the  common  populations  live  it,  his  soul  revolted. 
Delicately  nurtured,  finely  bred,  his  sensibility  accentuated  by 
the  prickings  of  that  thorn  in  the  flesh  which  was  so  intimate 
a  part  of  his  otherwise  noble  heritage,  the  grossness  and  brutality 
of  much  which  most  boys  of  his  age  have  already  learned  to  take 
for  granted  affected  him  to  the  point  of  loathing.  And  more 
especially  did  he  loathe  the  last  picture  presented  to  him  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  common.  At  the  door  of  a  gaudily-painted 
van,   somewhat  apart   from   the  rest,    stood   a   strapping   lass, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  159 

tambourine  in  one  hand,  tin  mug  for  the  holding  of  pennies 
in  the  other.  She  wore  a  black,  velvet  bodice,  rusty  with  age, 
and  a  blue,  silk  skirt  of  doubtful  cleanliness,  looped  up  over 
a  widely  distended  scarlet  petticoat.  Rows  of  amber  beads 
encircled  her  brown  throat.  She  laughed  and  leered,  bold-eyed 
and  coarsely  alluring,  at  a  couple  of  sheepish  country  lads  on 
the  green  below.  She  called  to  them,  pointing  over  her  shoulder 
with  the  tin  cup,  to  the  sign-board  of  her  show.  At  the  paint- 
ing on  that  board  Richard  Calmady  gave  one  glance.  His  lips 
grew  thin  and  his  face  white.  He  jerked  at  the  reins,  causing 
the  horses  to  start  and  swerve.  Was  it  possible  that,  as  old 
Jackie  Deeds  said,  God  Almighty  had  His  jokes  too,  jokes  at 
the  expense  of  His  own  creation  ?  That  in  cynical  abuse  of 
human  impotence,  as  a  wanton  pastime,  He  sent  human  beings 
forth  into  the  world  thus  ludicrously  defective?  The  thought 
was  unformulated.  It  amounted  hardly  to  a  thought  indeed, — 
was  but  a  blind  terror  of  insecurity,  which,  coursing  through  the 
boy's  mind,  filled  him  with  agonised  and  angry  pity  towards  all 
disgraced  fellow-beings,  all  enslaved  and  captive  beasts.  Dimly 
he  recognised  his  kinship  to  all  such. 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  bowled  along  the  smooth  road  and 
up  the  long  hill,  bordered  by  fir  and  beech  plantations,  which 
leads  to  Spendle  Flats.  And  there,  in  the  open,  the  storm  came 
down,  in  rolling  thunder  and  lashing  rain.  Tall,  shifting,  white 
columns  chased  each  other  madly  across  the  bronze  expanse  of 
the  moorland.  Chifney,  mindful  of  his  charge,  hurried  Dickie 
into  a  greatcoat,  buttoned  it  carefully  round  him,  offered  to 
drive,  almost  insisted  on  doing  so.  But  the  boy  refused  curtly. 
He  welcomed  the  stinging  rain,  the  swirling  wind,  the  swift  glare 
of  lightning,  the  ache  and  strain  of  holding  the  pulling  horses. 
The  violence  of  it  all  heated  his  blood  as  with  the  stern  passion 
of  battle.  And  under  the  influence  of  that  passion  his  humour 
changed  from  agonised  pity  to  a  fierce  determination  of  con- 
quest. He  would  fight,  he  would  come  through,  he  would  win, 
he  would  slay  dragons.  Prometheus-like  he  would  defy  the 
gods.  Again  his  thought  was  unformulated,  little  more  than 
the  push  of  young,  untamed  energy  impatient  of  ojjposition. 
I5ut  that  he  could  face  this  wild  mood  of  nature  and  control 
and  guide  these  high-mettled,  headstrong  horses  gave  him 
coolness  and  self-confidence.  It  yielded  him  assurance  that 
there  was,  after  all,  an  immensity  of  distance  between  himself 
and  all  caged,  outworn  creatures,  and  that  the  horrible  example 
of  deformity  upon  the  brazen-faced  girl's  show-board  had  really 
nothing  to  do  with  iiim.     Dickie's  last  humour  was  less  noble 


i6o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

than  his  first,  it  is  to  be  feared.  But  in  all  healthy  natures,  in 
all  those  in  whom  the  love  of  beauty  is  keen,  there  must  be  in 
)Outh  strong  repudiation  of  the  brotherhood  of  suffering.  Time 
will  teach  a  finer  and  deeper  lesson  to  those  that  have  faith  and 
courage  to  receive  it ;  yet  it  is  well  the  young  should  defy  sorrow, 
hate  suffering,  gallantly,  however  hopelessly,  fight. 

And  the  warlike  instinct  remained  by  Dickie  all  that  evening. 
He  was  determined  to  assert  himself,  to  measure  his  power,  to 
obtain.  "While  AVinter  was  helping  him  dress  for  dinner  he 
gave  orders  that  his  chair  should  be  placed  at  the  bottom  of 
the  table. 

"But  the  colonel  sits  there.  Sir  Richard." 

Dickie's  face  did  not  give  in  the  least. 

"He  has  sat  there,"  he  answered  rather  shortly.  "But  I 
have  spoken  to  her  ladyship,  and  in  future  he  will  sit  by  her. 
I'll  go  down  early,  Winter.  I  prefer  being  in  my  place  when 
the  others  come  in." 

It  must  be  added  that  Ormiston  accepted  his  deposition  in 
the  best  possible  spirit,  patting  the  boy  on  the  shoulder  as  he 
passed  him. 

"Quite  right,  old  chap,  I  like  to  see  you  there.  Claim 
your  own,  and  keep  it." 

At  which  a  lump  rose  in  Dickie's  throat,  nearly  causing  him 
to  choke  over  his  first  spoonful  of  soup.  But  Mary  Cathcart, 
whose  kind  eyes  saw  most  things,  smiled  first  upon  her  lover 
and  then  upon  him,  and  began  talking  to  him  of  horses,  as  one 
sportsman  to  another.  And  so  Dickie  speedily  recovered  him- 
self and  grew  eager,  playing  host  very  prettily  at  his  own  table. 

He  demanded  to  sit  up  to  prayers,  moreover,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  dead  Richard  Calmady's  stall  nearest  the  altar  rails 
on  the  gospel  side.  Next  him  was  Dr.  Knott,  who  had  come  in 
unexpectedly  just  before  dinner.  He  had  the  boy  a  little  on  his 
mind;  and,  while  contemptuous  of  his  own  solicitude  in  the 
matter,  wanted  badly  to  know  just  how  he  was.  Lady  Calmady 
liad  begged  him  to  stay.  He  could  be  excellent  company  when 
he  pleased.  He  had  laid  aside  his  roughness  of  manner  and  been 
excellent  company  to-night.  Next  him  was  Ormiston,  while  the 
seats  immediately  below  were  occui)icd  by  the  men-servants, 
Winter  at  their  head. 

Opposite  to  Richard,  across  the  chapel,  sat  Lady  Calmady. 
The  fair,  summer  moonlight  streaming  in  through  the  east 
window  spread  a  network  of  fairy  jewels  upon  her  stately,  grey- 
clad  figure  and  beautiful  head.  Beside  her  was  Mary  Cathcart, 
and  then  came  a  range  of  dark,  vacant  stalls.     And  below  these 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  i6i 

was  a  long  line  of  women-servants,  ranging  from  Denny,  in 
rustling,  black  silk,  and  Clara, — alert  and  pretty,  though  a  trifle 
tearful, — through  many  grades  and  orders,  down  to  the  little 
scullery-maid,  fresh  from  the  keeper's  cottage  on  the  Warren — 
home-sick,  and  half  scared  by  the  grand  gentlemen  and  ladies 
in  evening-dress,  by  the  strange,  lovely  figures  in  the  stained- 
glass  windows,  by  the  great,  gold  cross  and  flowers,  and  the 
rich  altar-cloth  and  costly  hangings  but  half  seen  in  the  con- 
flicting light  of  the  moonbeams  and  flickering  candles. 

John  Knott  was  impressed  by  the  scene  too,  though  hardly 
on  the  same  lines  as  the  little  scullery-maid.  He  had  long  ago 
passed  the  doors  of  orthodoxy  and  dogma.  Christian  church 
and  heathen  temple  —  could  he  have  had  the  interesting 
experience  of  entering  the  latter — were  alike  to  him.  The 
attitude  and  ofifice  of  the  priest,  the  same  in  every  age  and  under 
every  form  of  religion,  filled  him  with  cynical  scorn.  Yet  he 
had  to  own  there  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
nightly  gathering  together  of  this  great  household,  gentle  and 
simple;  and  in  this  bowing  before  the  source  of  the  im- 
penetrable mystery  which  surrounds  and  encloses  the  so 
curiously  urgent  and  vivid  consciousness  of  the  individual. 
He  had  to  own,  too,  that  there  was  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  the  tones  of  Julius  March's  voice  as  he  read  of  the 
young  Galilean  prophet  "going  about  and  doing  good" — simple 
and  gracious  record  of  tenderness  and  pity,  upon  which,  in 
the  course  of  centuries,  the  colossal  fabric  of  the  modern 
Christianity,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  has  been  built  up. 

"  '  And  great  multitudes  came  to  Him,'  "  read  Julius,  "  '  having 
with  them  those  that  were  lame,  blind,  dumb,  maimed,  and  many 
others,  and  cast  them  down  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  He  healed  them ; 
insomuch  that  the  multitude  marvelled  when  they  saw  the 
dumb  to  speak,  and  the  maimed  to  be  whole,  and  the  lame  to 
walk '  "— 

How  simple  it  ail  sounded  in  that  swert,  old-world  story  ! 
And  yet  how  lamentably,  in  striving  to  acc(;niplish  just  these 
same  things,  his  own  far-reaching  science  failed  ! 

"  '  The  maimed  to  be  whole,  the  lame  to  walk  '  " — involuntarily 
he  looked  round  at  the  boy  beside  him. 

Richard  leaned  back  in  his  stall,  tired  with  the  long  day  and 
its  varying  emotions.  His  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  his  i)rofile 
showed  pale  as  wax  against  the  background  of  dark  woodwork. 
His  eyebrows  were  drawn  into  a  slight  frown,  and  his  face  bore 
a  peculiar  expression  of  reticence.  Once  he  glanced  up  at  the 
reader,  as  though  on  a  sudden  a  jjleasant  thought  occurred  to 
n 


i62  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

him.  But  the  movement  was  a  passing  one.  He  leaned  back 
in  his  stall  again  and  folded  his  arms,  with  a  movement  of  cjuiet 
pride,  almost  of  contempt. 

Later  that  night,  as  her  custom  was,  Katherine  opened  the 
door  of  Richard's  room  softly,  and  entering  bent  over  his  bed  in 
the  warm  dimness  to  give  him  a  last  look  before  going  to  rest 
herself.  To-night  Dickie  was  awake.  He  put  his  arms  round 
her  coaxingly. 

"Stay  a  little,  mummy  darling,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  a  bit 
sleepy.     I  want  to  talk." 

Katherine  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  All  the  mass  of 
her  hair  was  unbound,  and  fell  in  a  cloud  about  her  to  the  waist. 
Richard,  leaning  on  one  elbow,  gathered  it  together,  held  and 
kissed  it.  He  was  possessed  by  the  sense  of  his  mother's  great 
beauty.  She  seemed  so  magnificently  far  removed  from  all  that 
is  coarse,  spoiled,  or  degraded.  She  seemed  so  superb,  so  ex- 
quisite a  personage.  So  he  gazed  at  her,  kissed  her  hair,  and 
gently  touched  her  arms,  where  the  open  sleeves  of  her  white 
dressing-gown  left  them  bare,  in  reverential  ecstasy. 

Katherine  became  almost  perplexed. 

"  My  dearest,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Oh  !  it's  only  that  you're  so  perfect,  mother,"  he  said. 
"  You  make  me  feel  so  safe  somehow.  I'm  never  afraid  when 
you  are  there." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  "  she  asked.  A  hope  came  upon  her  that 
he  had  grown  nervous  of  riding,  and  wanted  her  to  help  him  to 
retire  gracefully  from  the  matter.  But  his  next  words  undeceived 
her.  He  threw  himself  back  against  the  pillow  and  clasped  his 
hands  under  his  head. 

"  That's  just  it,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  am 
afraid  of,  and  yet  I  do  get  awfully  scared  at  times.  I  suppose, 
mother,  if  one's  in  a  good  position — the  position  we're  in,  you 
know — nobody  can  ill-use  one  very  much?  " 

Lady  Calmady's  eyes  blazed  with  indignation.—"  Ill-use 
you  ?  Who  has  ever  dared  to  hint  at,  to  dream  of,  such  a  thing, 
dear  Richard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  one — no  one  !  Only  I  can't  help  wondering  about 
things,  you  know.  And  some — some  people  do  get  most  awfully 
ill-used.     I  can't  help  seeing  that." 

Katherine  paused  before  answering.  The  boy  did  not  look 
at  her.  She  spoke  with  quiet  conviction,  her  eyes  gazing  out  into 
the  dimness  of  the  room. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  almost  reluctantly.  "And  perhaps  it  is 
as  well  you  should   know  it   too,  though  it  is   sad  knowledge. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  165 

People  are  not  always  very  considerate  of  one  another.  But  ill- 
usage  cannot  touch  you,  my  dearest.  You  are  saved  by  love, 
by  position,  by  wealth." 

"Vou  are  sure  of  that,  mother?" 

"  Sure  ?  Of  course  I  am  sure,  darling,"  she  answered.  Yet 
even  while  speaking  her  heart  sank. 

Richard  remained  silent  for  a  space.  Then  he  said,  with 
certain  hesitancy : — "  Mother,  tell  me,  it  is  true  then  that  I  am 
rich?" 

"  Quite  true,  Dick." 

"  But  sometimes  people  lose  their  money." 

Katherine  smiled. — "  Your  money  is  not  kept  in  a  stocking, 
dearest." 

'•  I  don't  suppose  it  is,"  the  boy  said,  turning  towards  her. 
"  But  don't  banks  break  ?  " 

"  Yes,  banks  break.  But  a  good  many  broken  banks  would 
not  affectyou.  It  is  too  long  a  story  to  tell  you  now,  Dickie, 
but  your  income  is  very  safe.  It  would  almost  need  a  revolution 
to  ruin  you.  You  are  rich  now  ;  and  I  am  able  to  save  consider- 
able sums  for  you  yearly." 

"  It's — it's  awfully  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  for 
me,  mother,"  he  interrupted,  stroking  her  bare  arm  again 
delicately. 

To  Katherine  his  half-shy  endearments  were  the  most 
delicious  thing  in  life — so  delicious  that  at  moments  she  could 
hardly  endure  them.     They  made  her  heart  too  fuU. 

"  Eight  years  hence,  when  you  come  of  age  and  I  give 
account  of  my  stewardship,  you  will  be  very  rich,"  she  said. 

Richard  lay  quite  still,  his  eyes  again  fixed  on  the  dim- 
ness. 

"That — that's  good  news,"  he  said  at  last,  drawing  a  long 
breath.  "  I  saw  things  to-day,  mother,  while  we  were  driving. 
It  was  nobody's  fault.  There  was  a  fair  with  a  menagerie  and 
shows  at  Farley  Row.  I  couldn't  help  seeing.  Don't  ask  me 
about  it,  mother.  I'd  rather  forget,  if  I  can.  Only  it  made  me 
understand  that  it  is  safer  for  anyone — well,  anyone  like — me — 
don't  you  know,  to  be  rich." 

Ricliard  sat  up,  flung  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her 
with  sudden  passion. 

"  Beautiful  mother,  honey-sweet  mother,"  he  cried,  "you've 
told  me  just  everything  I  wanted  to  know.  I  won't  be  afraid 
any  more."  'Jhen  he  added,  in  a  charming  little  tone  of 
authority  : — "  Now  you  mu.stn't  stay  here  any  longer.  You  must 
be  tired.     "\'ou  must  go  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep." 


BOOK  HI 

LA  BELLE  DAISIE  SANS  MERCI 

CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH    OUK    hero's    WOULD    GROWS    SENSIBLY    WIDER 

IN  the  autumn  of  1862  Richard  Calmady  went  up  to  Oxford. 
Not  through  ostentation,  but  in  obedience  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  case,  his  going  was  in  a  somewhat  princely  sort,  so  that  the 
venerable  city,  moved  from  the  completeness  of  her  scholarly 
and  historic  calm,  turned  her  eyes,  in  a  flutter  of  quite  mundane 
excitement,  upon  the  new-comer.  Julius  March  accompanied 
Richard.  Time  and  thought  had  moved  forward ;  but  the 
towers  and  spires  of  Oxford,  her  fair  cloisters  and  enchanting 
gardens,  her  green  meadows  and  noble  elms,  her  rivers,  Isis 
and  Cherwell,  remained  as  when  Julius,  too,  had  been  among 
the  young  and  ardent  of  her  sons.  He  was  greatly  touched  by 
this  return  to  the  Holy  City  of  his  early  manhood.  He  renewed 
old  friendships.  He  reviewed  the  past,  taking  the  measure 
calmly  of  what  life  had  promised,  what  it  had  given  of  good. 
A  pleasant  house  had  been  secured  in  St.  Giles's;  and  a 
contingent  of  the  Brockhurst  household,  headed  by  Winter,  went 
with  the  two  gentlemen,  while  Chaplin  and  a  couple  of  grooms 
preceded  them,  in  charge  of  a  goodly  number  of  horse-boxes. 

For  that  first  saddle,  fashioned  now  some  six  years  ago  by 
Josiah  Appleyard  of  Farley  Row,  had  worked  something  as  near  a 
miracle  as  ever  yet  was  worked  by  pigskin.  It  was  a  singularly 
ugly  saddle,  running  up  into  a  peak  front  and  back,  furnished 
with  a  complicated  system  of  straps  and  buckles  and — in  place  of 
stirrups  and  stirrup-leathers — with  a  pair  of  contrivances  resem- 
bling old-fashioned  holsters.  Mary  Cathcart's  brown  eyes  had 
grown  moist  on  first  beholding  it.  And  Colonel  Ormiston  had 
exclaimed : — "  Good  God  !     Oh,  well,  poor  dear  little  chap,  I 

164 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  165 

suppose  it's  the  best  we  can  do  for  him."  An  ugly  saddle — yet 
had  Josiah  Appleyard  ample  reason  to  skip,  lamb-like,  being  glad. 
P^or,  ugly  or  not,  it  fulfilled  its  purpose,  bringing  custom  to  the 
maker,  and  happiness  and  health  to  the  owner  of  it. 

The  boy  rode  fearlessly,  while  exercise  and  exertion  begot 
in  him  a  certain  light-heartedness  and  audacity  good  to  see. 
The  window-seat  of  the  Long  Gallery,  the  bookshelves  of  the 
library,  knew  him  but  seldom  now.  He  was  no  less  courteous, 
no  less  devoted  to  his  mother,  no  less  in  admiration  of  her 
beauty ;  but  the  young  barbarian  was  wide  awake  in  Dickie, 
and  drove  him  out  of  doors,  on  to  the  moorland  or  into  the 
merry  green-wood,  with  dog,  and  horse,  and  gun.  On  his  well- 
broken  pony  he  shot  over  the  golden  stubble  fields  in  autumn ; 
brought  down  his  pheasants,  stationed  at  the  edge  of  the  great 
coverts ;  went  out  for  long  afternoons,  rabbiting  in  the  warrens 
and  field  banks,  escorted  by  spaniels  and  retrievers,  and  keepers 
carrying  lithe,  lemon-coloured  ferrets  tied  up  in  a  bag. 

Later,  when  he  was  older, — but  this  tried  Katherine  some- 
what, reminding  her  too  keenly  of  another  Richard  Calmady 
and  days  long  dead, — Winter,  a  trifle  reluctant  at  such  shortening 
of  his  own  virtuous  slumbers,  would  call  Dickie  and  help  dress 
him,  all  in  the  grey  of  the  summer  morning ;  while,  at  the  little 
arched  doorway  in  the  west  front,  Chifney  and  a  groom  with  a 
led  horse  would  await  his  coming,  and  the  boy  would  mount 
and  ride  away  from  the  great,  sleeping  house.  At  such  times  a 
charm  of  dewy  freshness  lay  on  grass  and  woodland,  on  hill  and 
vale.  The  morning  star  grew  pale  and  vanished  in  the  clear- 
flashing  delight  of  sunrise,  as  Richard  rode  forth  to  meet  the 
string  of  racers  ;  as  he  noted  the  varying  form  and  fortune  of 
Rattlepate  or  Sweet  Rosemary,  of  Yellow  Jacket,  Morion  or 
Light-o'-Love,  over  the  short,  fragrant  turf  of  the  gallop ;  as  he 
felt  the  virile  joy  which  the  strength  of  the  horses,  and  the 
{)Ounding  rush  of  them  as  they  swept  past  him,  ever  aroused  in 
him.  Then  he  would  ride  on,  by  a  shortcut,  to  the  old,  red- 
brick rubbing-house,  crowning  the  rising  ground  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  lake,  and  wait  there  to  see  the  finish,  talking  of 
[irofessional  matters  with  Chifney  meanwhile  ;  or,  turning  his 
horse's  head  towards  the  wide,  distant  view,  sit  silent,  drawing 
near  to  nature  and  worshipjjing — with  the  innocent  gladness  of 
a  still  virgin  heart — in  the  'J'empic  of  the  Dawn. 

Life  at  C)xford  was  set  in  a  different  key.  The  university 
city  was  well  disposed  towards  this  young  man  of  so  great 
wealth  and  so  strange  fortunes  ;  and  Richard  was  unsuspicious, 
and  ready  enough  to  meet  friendliness  iialf-way.     Yet  it  must  be 


I66  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

owned  he  suffered  many  bad  quarters  of  an  hour.  He  was,  at 
once,  older  in  thought  and  younger  in  practical  experience  than 
his  fellow-undergraduates.  He  was  cut  off,  of  necessity,  from 
their  sports.  They  would  eat  his  breakfasts,  drink  his  wine, 
and  show  no  violent  objection  to  riding  his  horses.  They  were 
considerate,  almost  anxiously  careful  of  him,  being  generous  and 
good-hearted  lads.  And  yet  poor  Dick  was  perturbed  by  the 
fear  that  they  were  more  at  ease  without  him,  that  his  presence 
acted  as  a  slight  check  upon  their  genial  spirits  and  their  rattling 
talk.  And  so  it  came  about  that  though  his  acquaintances  were 
many,  his  friends  were  few.  Chief  among  the  latter  was  Ludovic 
Quayle,  a  younger  son  of  Lord  Fallowfeild — whom  that  kindly, 
if  not  very  intelligent,  nobleman  had  long  ago  proposed  to  export 
from  the  Whitney  to  the  Brockhurst  nursery  with  a  view  to  the 
promotion  of  general  cheerfulness.  Mr.  Ludovic  Quayle  was  a 
rather  superfine,  young  gentleman,  possessed  of  an  excellent 
opinion  of  himself,  and  a  modest  opinion  of  other  persons — 
his  father  included.  But  under  his  somewhat  supercilious  de- 
meanour there  was  a  vein  of  true  romance.  He  loved  Richard 
Calmady.  And  neither  time,  nor  opposing  interests,  nor  certain 
black  chapters  which  had  later  to  be  read  in  the  history  of  life, 
destroyed  or  even  weakened  that  love. 

And  so  Dick,  finding  himself  at  sad  disadvantage  with  most 
of  the  charming  young  fellows  about  him  in  matters  of  play, 
turned  to  matters  of  work,  letting  go  the  barbarian  side  of  life 
for  a  while.  In  brain,  if  not  in  body,  he  believed  himself  the 
equal  of  the  best  of  them.  His  ambition  was  fired  by  the  desire 
of  intellectual  triumph.  He  would  have  the  success  of  the 
schools,  since  the  success  of  the  river  and  the  cricket- field  were 
denied  him.  Not  that  Richard  set  any  exaggerated  value  upon 
academic  honours.  Only  two  things  are  necessary — this  at  least 
was  his  code  at  that  period — never  to  lapse  from  the  instincts  of 
high-breeding  and  honour,  and  to  see  just  as  much  of  life,  of  men 
and  of  affairs,  as  obedience  to  those  instincts  permits.  Already 
the  sense  of  proportion  was  strong  in  Richard,  fed  perhaps  by 
the  galling  sense  of  personal  deformity.  Learning  is  but  a  part 
of  the  whole  of  man's  equipment,  and  a  pakry  enough  part  unless 
wisdom  go  along  with  it.  But  the  thirst  of  battle  remained  in 
him;  and  in  this  matter  of  learning,  at  least,  he  could  meet 
men  of  his  own  age  and  standing  on  equal  terms  and  overcome 
them  in  fair  fight. 

And  so,  during  the  last  two  years  of  his  university  course, 
he  did  meet  them  and  overcame,  honours  falling  liberally  to  his 
share.     Julius    March    looked    on    in    pleased    surprise    at    the 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  167 

exploits  of  his  former  pupil.  While  Ludovic  Qiiayle,  with 
raised  eyebrows  and  half  -  tender,  half  -  ironical  amusement 
relaxing  the  corners  of  his  remarkably  beautiful  mouth,  would 
say  : — 

"Calmady,  you  really  are  a  shameless  glutton  !  How  many 
more  immortal  glories,  any  one  of  which  would  satisfy  an 
ordinary  man,  do  you  propose  to  swallow  ?  " 

"I  suppose  it's  a  bad  year,"  Richard  would  answer.  "The 
others  can't  amount  to  very  much,  or,  needless  to  say,  I  shouldnt 
walk  over  the  course." 

"  A  charming  little  touch  of  modesty  as  far  as  you  yourself 
are  concerned,"  Ludovic  answered.  "  But  not  strikingly  flatter- 
ing to  the  others.  I  would  rather  suppose  you  abnormally  clever, 
than  all  the  rest  abnormally  stupid — for,  after  all,  you  know,  am 
not  I,  my  great  self,  among  the  rest  ?  " 

At  which  Dickie  would  laugh  rather  shamefacedly,  and 
say  : — "  Oh  you  1 —  why  you  know  well  enough  you  could  do 
anything  you  liked  if  you  weren't  so  confoundedly  lazy  ! " 

And  meanwhile,  at  Brockhurst,  as  news  arrived  of  these 
successes,  Lady  Calmady's  soul  received  comfort.  Her  step 
was  light,  her  eyes  full  of  clear  shining  as  she  moved  to  and 
fro  ordering  the  great  house  and  great  estate.  She  felt  repaid 
for  the  bitter  pain  of  parting  with  her  darling,  and  sending  him 
forth  to  face  the  curious,  possibly  scornful,  world  of  the  university 
city.  He  had  proved  himself  and  won  his  spurs.  And  this 
solaced  her  in  the  solitude  and  loneliness  of  her  present  life. 
For  her  dear  friend  and  companion  Marie  de  Mirancourt  had 
found  the  final  repose,  before  seeking  that  of  the  convent. 
Early  one  February  morning,  in  the  second  year  of  Richard's 
sojourn  at  Oxford,  fortified  by  the  rites  of  the  Church,  she  had 
passed  the  gates  of  death  peacefully,  blessing  and  blessed. 
Katherine  mourned  for  her,  and  would  continue  to  mourn  with 
still  and  faithful  sorrow,  even  while  welcoming  home  her  young 
scholar,  hearing  the  details  of  his  past  achievements  and  hopes 
for  the  future,  or  entertaining  —  with  all  gracious  hospitality — 
such  of  his  Oxford  friends  as  he  elected  to  invite  to  Ikockhurst. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  last  occasions,  the  young  men  having 
gone  down  to  the  Gun-Room  to  smoke  and  discuss  the  days 
pheasant -shooting,  that  Katherine  had  k('[)t  Juh'ns  March 
.standing  before  the  Chapel-Room  fire,  and  had  looked  at  him,  a 
certain  wistfulness  in  her  face. 

"He  is  haj)j)y — don't  you  think,  Julius?"  she  said.  "He 
seems  to  me  really  hapf)ier,  more  contented,  than  I  have  ever 
seen  him  since  his  childhood." 


i68  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Yes,  I  also  think  that,"  JuHus  answered.  "He  has  reason 
to  be  contented.  He  has  measured  himself  against  other  men 
and  is  satisfied  of  his  own  powers." 

"  Everyone  admires  him  at  Oxford  ?  "  ^ 

"Yes,  they  admire  and  envy  him.  He  has  been  brilliantly 
successful." 

Katherine  drew  herself  up,  clasping  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  smiling  proudly  as  she  mused,  gazing  into  the  crimson 
heart  of  the  burning  logs.  Then,  after  a  silence,  she  turned 
suddenly  to  her  companion. 

"It  is  very  sweet  to  have  you  here  at  home  again,  Julius," 
she  said  gently.  "  I  have  missed  you  sorely  since  dearest  Marie 
de  Mirancourt  died.  Live  a  little  longer  than  I  do,  please. 
Ah  !  I  am  afraid  it  is  no  small  thing  that  I  ask  you  to  do  for 
my  sake,  for  I  foresee  that  I  shall  survive  to  a  lamentably  old 
age.  But  sacrifice  yourself,  Julius,  in  the  matter  of  living. 
Less  than  ever,  when  the  shadows  fall,  shall  I  be  able  to  spare 
you." 

For  which  words  of  his  dear  lady's,  though  spoken  lightly, 
half  in  jest,  Julius  March  gave  God  great  thanks  that  night. 

It  was  about  this  period  that  two  pieces  of  news,  each 
proving  eventually  to  have  much  personal  significance,  reached 
Lady  Calmady  from  the  outside  world.  The  first  took  the 
form  of  a  letter — a  rather  pensive  and  tired  letter — from  her 
brother,  William  Ormiston,  telling  her  that  his  daughter 
Helen  was  about  to  marry  the  Comte  de  Vallorbes,  a  young 
gentleman  very  well  known  both  to  Parisian  and  Neapolitan 
society.  The  second  took  the  form  of  an  announcement  in 
the  Morning  Post,  to  the  effect  that  Lady  Tobermory,  whose 
lamented  death  that  paper  had  already  chronicled,  had  left  the 
bulk  of  her  not  inconsiderable  fortune  to  her  god-daughter 
Honoria,  eldest  child  of  that  distinguished  officer  General  St. 
Quentin.  In  both  cases  Lady  Calmady  wrote  letters  of  con- 
gratulation, in  the  latter  with  very  sincere  and  lively  pleasure. 
She  held  her  cousin.  General  St.  Quentin,  in  affection  for  old 
sake's  sake.  Honoria  she  remembered  as  a  singularly  graceful, 
high-bred,  little  maiden,  fleet  of  foot  as  a  hind — too  fleet  of  foot 
indeed  for  little  Dickie's  comfort  of  mind,  and  therefore  banished 
from  the  Brockhurst  nursery.  In  the  former  case,  her  congratula- 
tions being  somewhat  conventional,  she  added — in  her  own 
name  and  that  of  Richard — a  necklace  of  pearls,  with  a  diamond 
clasp  and  bars  to  it,  of  no  mean  value. 

In  the  spring  of  1865  Richard  left  Oxford  for  good,  and 
took  up  his  residence  once  more  at    llrockhurst.     But   it  was 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  169 

not  until  the  autumn  of  the  following  year,  when  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  three-and-twenty,  and  had  already,  for  some 
six  months,  served  his  Queen  and  country  in  the  capacity  of 
Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  county  of  Southampton,  that  any 
event  occurred  greatly  affecting  his  fortunes,  and  therefore  worthy 
to  set  forth  at  large  in  this  history. 


CHAPTER  II 

TKLLIXc;     HOW     DICKIf/s     SOVh    WAS     SOMKWTHAT    SICK,     AND    HOW^ 
HE    -MKT    FAIR    WOMKX    OX    THE    CONFINES    OF    A    WOOD 

RICHARD  CALMADY  rode  homeward  through  the  autumn 
woods,  and  the  aspect  of  them  was  very  lovely.  But 
their  loveliness  was  hectic,  a  loveliness  as  it  seemed,  at  all 
events  at  first  sight,  of  death  and  burial,  rather  than  of  life 
and  hope.  The  sky  was  overcast,  and  a  chill  clung  to  the 
stream-side  and  haunted  the  hollows.  The  young  man's  humour, 
unfortunately,  was  only  too  much  in  harmony  with  the  more 
melancholy  suggestions  of  the  scene.  For  Richard  was  by 
nature  something  of  a  poet,  though  he  but  rarely  wrote  verses, 
and  usually  burned  them  as  soon  as  written  being  scholar  enough 
to  know  and  feel  impatient  of  the  "  second  best."  And  this 
inherent  strain  of  poetry  in  him  tempered  the  active  and  i)ractical 
side  of  his  character,  making  wealth  and  position,  and  all  those 
things  which  the  worldly-minded  seek,  seem  of  slight  value  to 
him  at  times.  It  induced  in  him  many  and  very  varying  moods. 
It  carried  him  back  often,  even  now  in  the  strength  of  his 
young  manhood,  to  the  fine  fancies  and  exquisite  unreason  of 
the  fairy-world  in  which  those  so  sadly  ill-balanced  footsteps  of 
his  had  first  been  set.  'J'o-day  had  proved,  so  far,  an  unlucky 
one,  prolific  of  warfare  between  his  clear  brain  and  all  too 
sensitive  heart.  For  it  was  the  burden  of  Richard's  tempera- 
ment— the  almost  inevitable  result  of  that  ever-jjrescnt  thorn 
in  the  flesh — that  he  slirunk  as  a  poet,  even  as  a  woman,  while 
as  a  man,  and  a  strong  one,  he  reasoned  and  fought. 

It  fill  out  on  this  wise.  He  had  attended  the  Quarter 
Sessions  at  W'estchurch  ;  and  a  certain  restlessness,  born  of  the 
changing  seasons,  being  uf)on  him,  he  had  ridden.  His  habit, 
when  passing  outside  the;  limits  of  his  own  i)roperty,  was  to  drive. 
He  l)ecamc  aware— and  angrily  conscious  his  groom  was  aware 
also — that  his  appearance  afforded  a  spectacle  of  the  liveliest 


lyo  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

interest  to  the  passers-by ;  that  persons  of  very  various  age 
and  class  had  stopped  and  turned  to  gaze  at  him  ;  and  that, 
while  crossing  the  bridge  spanning  the  dark,  oily  waters  of 
the  canal,  in  the  industrial  quarter  of  the  pushing,  wide-awake, 
county  town,  he  had  been  the  subject  of  brutal  comment, 
followed  by  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  collarless  throats  of  some 
dozen  operatives  and  bargees  loitering  thereupon. 

The  consequence  was  that  the  young  man  arrived  in  court, 
his  eyes  rather  hard  and  his  jaw  set.  Rich,  well-born,  not  un- 
distinguished too  for  his  attainments,  and  only  three-and-twenty, 
Dickie  had  a  fine  fund  of  arrogance  to  draw  upon  yet.  He 
drew  upon  it  this  morning,  rather  to  the  confusion  of  his 
colleagues  upon  the  bench.  Mr.  Cathcart,  the  chairman,  was 
already  present,  and  stood  talking  with  Mr.  Seymour,  the  rector 
of  Farley,  a  shrewd,  able  squarson  of  the  old  sporting  type. 
Captain  Fawkes  of  Water  End  was  there  too ;  and  so  was 
Lemuel  Image,  eldest  son  of  the  Mr.  Image,  sometime  mayor 
of  Westchurch,  who  has  been  mentioned  in  the  early  pages  of 
this  chronicle. 

In  the  last  twenty  years,  supported  by  ever-increasing  piles 
of  barrels,  the  Image  family  had  mounted  triumphantly  upward 
in  the  social  scale.  Lemuel,  the  man  in  question,  married  a 
poor  and  distant  relation  of  Lord  Aldborough,  the  late  lord 
lieutenant  of  the  county ;  and  had  by  this,  and  by  a  rather 
truculent  profession  of  high  Tory  politics,  secured  himself  a  seat 
on  the  bench.  He  had  'given  a  fancy  price,  too,  for  that  pretty, 
little  place,  Frodsmill,  the  grounds  of  which  form  such  an 
exasperating  Naboth's  vineyard  in  the  heart  of  the  Newlands 
property.  Neither  his  person,  nor  his  politics,  nor  his  absence  of 
■culture,  found  favour  in  Richard  Calmady's  sight.  And  to-day, 
being  somewhat  on  edge,  the  brewer's  large,  blustering  presence 
and  manner — at  once  patronising  and  servile — struck  him  as 
peculiarly  odious.  Image  betrayed  an  evil  tendency  to 
emphasise  his  remarks  by  slapping  his  acquaintances  upon  the 
back.  He  was  also  guilty  of  supposing  a  defect  of  hearing  in 
all  persons  older  than,  or  in  any  measure  denied  the  absolute 
plethora  of  physical  vigour  so  conspicuous  in,  himself.  He 
invariably  raised  his  voice  in  addressing  Richard.  In  return  for 
which  graceful  attention  Dickie  most  cordially  detested  him. 

"  Image  is  a  bit  of  a  cad,  and  certainly  Calmady  makes  no 
bones  about  letting  him  know  it,"  Captain  Fawkes  remarked  to 
Mr.  Seymour,  as  they  drove  back  to  Farley  in  the  latter's  dog- 
cart. "  Fortunately  he  has  a  hide  like  a  rhinoceros,  or  we 
should  have  had  a  regular  row  between  them  more  than  once 


- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  171 

this  morning.  Calmady's  generally  charming ;  but  I  must  say, 
when  he  likes,  he  can  be  about  the  most  insolent  fellow  I've 
ever  met,  in  a  gentleman-like  way." 

"  A  great  deal  of  that  is  simply  self-protective,"  the  clergy- 
man answered.  "  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  how  it  comes  about, 
when  you  take  his  circumstances  into  account.  If  I  was  him, 
God  forgive  me,  I  know  I  shouldn't  be  half  so  sweet-tempered. 
He  bears  it  wonderfully  well,  all  things  considered." 

Nor  did  the  disturbing  incidents  of  the  day  end  with  the 
familiarities  of  the  loud-voiced  brewer.  The  principal  case  to  be 
tried  was  a  melancholy  one  enough — a  miserable  history  of  way- 
ward desire,  shame  and  suffering,  followed  by  a  despairing  course 
of  lies  and  petty  thieving  to  help  support  the  poor  baby  whose 
advent  seemed  so  wholly  a  curse.  The  young  mother — a  pretty, 
desperate  creature — made  no  attempt  at  denial.  She  owned  she 
had  robbed  her  mistress  of  a  shilling  here  and  sixpence  there, 
that  she  had  taken  now  a  bit  of  table  silver  and  then  a  garment 
to  the  pawn-shop.  How  could  she  help  it  ?  Her  wages  were  a 
trifle,  since  her  character  was  damaged.  Wasn't  it  a  charity  to 
employ  a  girl  like  her  at  all?  so  her  mistress  said.  And  yet  the 
child  must  live.  And  Richard  Calmady,  sitting  in  judgment 
there  with  those  four  other  gentlemen  of  substantial  means  and 
excellent  position,  sickened  as  he  listened  to  the  sordid  details, 
the  relentless  elementary  arguments.  For  the  girl,  awed  and 
frightened  at  first,  grew  eloquent  in  self-defence. — "She  loved 
him" — he  being  a  smart  young  fellow,  who,  with  excellent  re- 
commendations from  Chifney,  had  left  the  Brockhurst  stables 
some  two  years  before,  to  take  service  in  Westchurch. — "And 
he  always  spoke  her  fair.  Had  told  her  he'd  marry  her  right 
enough,  after  a  bit — before  God  he  would.  But  it  would  ruin 
his  chance  of  first-class  places  if  he  married  yet.  The  gentry 
wouldn't  take  any  but  single  men  of  his  age.  A  wife  would 
stand  in  his  way.  And  she  didn't  want  to  stand  in  his  way — he 
knew  her  better  than  that.  Not  but  that  he  reckoned  her  just 
as  much  his  wife  as  any  woman  could  be.  Of  course  he  did. 
What  a  silly  she  was  to  trouble  about  it.  And  then  when  there 
was  no  hiding  any  longer  how  it  was  with  her,  he  up  and  awayed 
to  London,  saying  he  would  make  a  home  for  her  there.  And 
he  kept  on  writing  for  a  bit,  but  he  never  told  her  where  to 
write  to  him  in  return,  so  she  ccnildn't  answer.  And  then  his 
letters  came  seldom,  and  then  stopped  altogether,  and  then — 
and  then  " — ■ 

The  girl  was  rebuked  for  her  much  speaking,  and  so  wasting 
the  time  of  the  Court.     There  were  other  cases.     And  Richard 


172  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Calmady  sickened  yet  more,  recognising  in  that  a  parable  of 
perpetual  application.  For  are  there  not  always  other  cases? 
The  tragedy  of  the  individual  life  reaching  its  climax  seems,  to 
the  chief  actor,  worthy  to  claim  and  hold  universal  attention. 
\'et  the  sun  never  stands  still  in  heaven,  nor  do  the  footsteps  of 
men  tarry  upon  earth.  No  one  person  may  take  up  too  much 
space,  too  much  time.  The  movement  of  things  is  not  stayed. 
The  single  cry,  however  bitter,  is  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the 
pushing  crowd.  The  individual,  however  keen  his  griefs,  how- 
ever heinous  the  offence  done  him,  must  make  way  for  those 
same  other  cases.     This  is  the  everlasting  law. 

And  so  pained,  out  of  tune,  troubled  too  by  smouldering 
fires  of  anger,  Richard  left  Westchurch  and  his  fellow-magistrates 
as  early  as  he  decently  could.  Avoiding  the  highroad  leading 
by  Newlands  and  through  Sandyfield  village,  he  cut  across 
country  by  field  lanes  and  over  waste -lands  to  Farley  Row. 
The  wide  quiet  of  the  autumn  afternoon,  the  slight  chill  in  the 
air,  were  grateful  to  him  after  the  noise  and  close  atmosphere  of 
the  court.  Yet  the  young  man  strove  vainly  to  think  of  pleasant 
things  and  to  regain  his  serenity.  The  girl's  tear-blotted  face, 
the  tones  of  her  voice,  haunted  him.  Six  weeks'  imprisonment. 
The  sentence,  after  all,  was  a  light  one.  Yet  who  was  he,  who 
were  those  four  other  well  -  to  -  do  gentlemen,  that  they  should 
judge  her  at  all?  How  could  they  measure  the  strength  of  the 
temptation  which  had  beset  her?  If  temptation  is  strong 
enough,  must  not  the  tempted  of  necessity  yield?  If  the 
tempted  does  not  yield,  is  that  not  merely  proof  that  the 
temptation  was  not  strong  enough  ?  The  whole  thing  appeared 
to  him  a  matter  of  mathematics  or  mechanics.  Given  a  greater 
weight  than  it  can  carry,  the  rope  is  bound  to  break.  And  then 
for  those  who  have  not  felt  the  strain  to  blame  the  rope,  punish 
the  rope!  It  seemed  to  Richard,  as  he  rode  homeward,  that 
human  justice  is  too  often  a  very  comedy  of  injustice.  It  all 
appeared  to  him  so  exceedingly  foolish.  And  yet  society  must 
be  protected.  Other  pretty,  weak,  silly  creatures  must  be 
warned,  by  such  rather  brutal  object-lessons,  not  to  bear 
bastards  or  pawn  their  mistresses'  spoons. 

"  'Je  ne  sais  pas  ce  que  dest  que  la  vie  eterneiie,  mats  celle  a 
est  u)ie  maiivaise plainsajiferie,'"  Dickie  quoted  to  himself  some- 
what bitterly. 

He  turned  aside  at  Farley  Row,  following  the  narrow  road 
that  runs  behind  the  houses  in  the  main  street  and  the  great, 
vacant  stables  and  outbuildings  of  the  White  Lion  Inn.  And 
here,  as  though  the  immediate  displeasures  of  this  ill-starred  day 


LA  BELLE  DAAIE  SANS  MERCI  173 

were  insufficient,  memory  arose  and  recalled  other  displeasures 
of  long  ago.  Recalled  old  Jackie  Deeds  lurching  out  of  that 
same  inn  yard,  empty  pipe  in  mouth,  greedy  of  alms.  Recalled 
the  old  postboy's  ugly  morsel  of  profanity — "God  Almighty 
had  His  jokes  too."  And,  at  that,  the  laughter  of  those  loafers 
upon  the  canal  bridge  saluted  Richard's  ears  once  more,  as  did 
the  loud,  familiar  phrases  of  Mr.  Lemuel  Image,  the  Westchurch 
brewer. 

Before  him  the  fiat  expanse  of  Gierke's  Green  opened  out ; 
and  the  turf  of  it — beaded  with  dew  which  the  frail  sunshine  of 
the  early  morning  had  failed  to  burn  up — was  crossed  by  long 
tracks  of  darker  green,  where  flocks  of  geese  had  wandered  over 
its  misty  surface.  Here  the  travelling  menagerie  and  all  the 
booths  of  the  fair  had  been  stationed.  Memory  rigged  up  the 
tents  once  more,  painted  the  vans  in  crude,  glaring  colours,  set 
drums  beating  and  merry-go-rounds  turning,  pointed  a  malicious 
finger  at  the  sign-board  of  a  certain  show.  How  many  times 
Richard  had  passed  this  way  in  the  intervening  years,  and 
remembered  in  passing,  yet  thrown  all  hurt  of  remembrance 
from  him  directly  and  lightly  !  To-day  it  gripped  him.  He  put 
his  horse  into  a  sharp  trot. 

Skirting  the  edge  of  the  green,  he  rode  down  a  rutted  cart 
lane — farm  buildings  and  well-filled  rickyards  on  the  left — and 
forded  the  shallow,  brown  stream  which  separates  the  parish  of 
Farley  from  that  of  Sandyfield  and  the  tithing  of  Brockhurst. 

Ahead  lay  the  wide,  rough  road,  ending  in  a  broken  avenue 
of  ancient  oaks,  and  bordered  on  either  hand  by  a  strip  of  waste- 
land overgrown  with  coarse  grasses  and  low  thickets  of  maple — 
which  leads  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  Brockhurst  woods.  Over 
these  hung  a  soft,  bluish  haze,  making  them  appear  vast  in 
extent,  and  upraising  the  dark  ridge  of  the  fir  forest,  which 
crowns  them,  to  mountain  height  against  the  western  sky.  A 
covey  of  partridges  ran  up  the  sandy  road  before  Richard's 
horse;  and,  rising  at  last  with  a  long-drawn  whir  of  wings, 
skimmed  the  top  of  the  bank  and  dropped  into  the  pale  stubble 
field  on  the  other  side  of  it.  He  paused  at  the  head  of  the 
avenue  while  the  keeper's  wife — in  lilac  apron  and  sunbonnet — 
ran  out  to  open  the  big,  white  gate  ;  the  dogs  meantime,  from 
their  kennels  under  the  Spanish  chestnuts  upon  the  slope  behind 
her  gabled  cottage,  selling  uj)  a  vociferous  chorus.  Thus 
heralded,  Richard  passed  into  the  whisiiering,  mysterious  still- 
ness of  the  autumn  woods. 

The  summer  had  been  dry  and  fine,  the  foliage  unusually 
rich  and  heavy,  all  the  young  wood  rijjening  well.     Gonsequenlly 


174  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  turn  of  the  leaf  was  very  brilliant  that  year.  The  sweetly 
sober  English  landscape  SLcmed  to  have  run  mad  and  decked 
irselfj  as  for  a  masquerade,  in  extravagant  splendours  of  colour. 
The  smooth -stemmed  beeches  had  taken  on  every  tint  from 
fiery  brown,  through  orange  and  amber,  to  verdigris  green 
touching  latest  July  shoots.  The  round-headed  oaks,  practising 
even  in  carnival  time  a  measure  of  restraint,  had  arrayed  them- 
selves in  a  hundred  rich,  finely -gradated  tones  of  russet  and 
umber.  While,  here  and  there,  a  tall  bird -cherry,  waxing 
wanton,  had  clothed  itself  like  the  Woman  of  Babylon  in  rose- 
scarlet  from  crown  to  lowest  black-barked  twig.  Higher  up, 
the  larch  plantations  rose  in  crowds  of  butter-coloured  spires. 
Amethystine,  and  blood-red,  white-spotted  toad-stools,  in  little 
companies,  pushed  through  the  light  soil  on  either  side  the  road. 
Trailing  sprays  of  bramble  glowed  as  flame.  Rowan  berries 
hung  in  heavy  coral  bunches,  and  the  dogwood  spread  itself  in 
sparse,  china  -  pink  clusters.  Only  the  undergrowth  of  crooked 
alders,  in  swampy,  low -lying  places,  kept  its  dark,  purplish 
green ;  and  the  light  foliage  of  the  ash  waved  in  shadowy  pallor 
against  its  knobbed  and  knotted  branches  :  and  the  ranks  of  the 
encircling  firs  retained  their  solemn  habit,  as  though  in  protest 
against  the  universal  riot. 

The  stream  hidden  away  in  the  hazel  coppice  gurgled  and 
murmured.  Beech-masts  pattered  down,  startling  the  stillness 
as  with  a  sudden  dropping  of  thunder  rain.  Squirrels,  disturbed 
in  the  ingathering  of  their  winter  store,  whisked  up  the  boles  of 
the  great  trees  and  scolded  merrily  from  the  forks  of  the  high 
branches.  Shy,  wild  things  rustled  and  scampered  unseen 
through  the  tangled  undergrowth  and  beds  of  bracken.  While 
that  veil  of  bluish  haze  touched  all  the  distance  of  the  landscape 
with  a  dehcate  mystery,  and  softly  blotted  the  vista  of  each  wide 
shooting-drive,  or  winding  pathway,  to  left  and  right. 

And  as  Richard  rode  onward,  leaves  gay  even  in  death 
fluttering  down  around  him,  his  mood  began  to  suffer  change. 
He  ceased  to  think  and  began  to  feel  merely.  First  came  a 
dreamy  delight  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene  about  him.  Then  the 
sense  of  mystery  grew  upon  him — of  mystery,  not  merely  hanging 
in  the  delicate  haze,  but  dwelling  in  the  endless  variety  of  form 
and  colour  which  met  his  eyes,  of  mystery  inviting  him  in  the 
soft,  multitudinous  voices  of  the  woodland.  And,  as  the  minutes 
passed,  this  sense  grew  increasingly  provocative,  became  too 
increasingly  elusive.  The  light  leapt  into  Dickie's  eyes.  He 
smiled  to  himself.  He  was  filled  with  unreasoning  expectation. 
He  seemed — it  was  absurd,  yet  very  charming — to  be  playing 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  175 

hide-and-seek  with  some  glad  secret  which  at  any  instant  might 
be  revealed  to  him.  It  murmured  to  him  in  the  brook.  It 
scolded  at  him  merrily  with  the  scolding  squirrels.  It  startled 
the  surrounding  stillness,  with  the  down-pattering  beech-masts 
and  fluttering  of  leaves.  It  eluded  him  deftly,  rustling  away 
unseen  through  the  green  and  gold  of  the  bracken.  Lastly 
when,  reaching  the  summit  of  the  ridge  of  hill,  he  entered  upon 
the  levels  of  the  great  tableland,  it  hailed  him  in  the  long-drawn 
sighing  of  the  fir  forest.  For  a  wind,  suddenly  awakened,  swept 
towards  him  from  some  far  distance,  neared,  broke  overhead, 
as  summer  waves  upon  a  shingly  beach,  died  in  delicious 
whispers,  only  to  sweep  up  and  break  and  die  again.  Mean- 
while the  grey  pall  of  cloud  parted  in  the  west,  disclosing  spaces 
of  faint  yet  clearest  blue,  and  the  declining  sun,  from  behind  dim 
islands  of  shifting  vapour,  sent  forth  immense  rays  of  mild  and 
misty  light. 

Richard  laughed  involuntarily  to  himself.  For  there  was  n 
fantastic,  curiously  alluring  influence  in  all  this.  It  sj)oke  to 
him  as  in  delicate  persuasion.  His  sense  of  expectation  in- 
tensified. He  would  not  ride  homeward  and  shut  himself  within 
four  walls  just  yet ;  but  yield  himself  to  the  wooing  of  these 
fair  sylvan  divinities,  to  that  of  the  spirit  of  the  evening  wind, 
of  the  softly  shrouding  haze,  and  of  the  broadening  sunlight,  a 
little  longer. 

A  turf-ride  branches  away  to  the  left,  leading  along  a  narrow 
outstanding  spur  of  tableland  to  a  summer-house,  the  prospect 
from  which  is  among  the  noted  beauties  of  Brockhurst.  This 
summer-house  or  Temple,  as  it  has  come  to  be  called,  is  an 
octagonal  structure.  Round-shafted  pillars  rise  at  each  pro- 
jecting angle.  In  the  recesses  between  them  are  low  stone 
benches,  save  in  front  where  an  open  colonnade  gives  upon 
the  view.  The  roof  is  leaded,  and  surmounted  by  a  wooden 
l^all  and  tall,  three-sided  spike.  These  last,  as  wull  as  the 
plastered,  windowless  walls,  are  painted  white.  Within,  the 
hollow  of  the  dome  is  decorated  in  fresco,  with  groups  of  gaily 
clad  ladies  and  their  attendant  cavaliers,  with  errant  cupids, 
garlands  of  flowers,  trophies  of  rather  impossible  musical  in- 
struments, and  cages  full  of  imprisoned,  and  therefore  doubtless 
very  naughty,  loves,  'i'he  colours  have  grown  faint  by  action  of 
insweeping  wind  and  weather;  but  this  lends  a  pathos  to  the 
light-hearted,  highly  -  artificial  art,  accentuating  the  contrast 
between  it  and  its  immediate  surroundings. 

For  the  Temple  stands  on  a  platform  of  turf  at  the  extreme 
point    of    the    spur   of  tableland.     The   hillside,   clothed   with 


176  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

heather  and  bracken,  fringed  lower  down  with  a  coppice  of 
delicate  birches,  falls  steeply  away  in  front  and  on  either  hand. 
Outstretched  below,  besides  the  panorama  of  the  great  woods, 
lies  all  the  country  about  Farley,  on  to  VVestchurch,  and  beyond 
again — pasture  and  cornlands,  scattered  hamlets  and  red-roofed 
farms  half  hidden  among  trees,  the  glint  of  streams  set  in  the 
vivid  green  of  water-meadows,  and  soft,  blue  range  behind  range 
of  distance  to  that  pale  uprising  of  chalk  down  in  the  far  south. 
Upon  the  right,  some  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  blocking  the  end 
of  an  avenue  of  secular  Scotch  firs,  the  eastern  fac^ade  of  Brock- 
hurst  House  shows  planted  proudly  upon  the  long  grey  and  red 
lines  of  the  terrace. 

Richard  checked  his  horse,  pausing  to  look  for  a  moment  at 
that  well-beloved  home.  Then  musing,  he  let  his  horse  go 
forward  along  the  level  turf-ride.  The  grey  dome  and  white 
columns  of  the  Temple  standing  out  against  the  spacious  pro- 
spect— the  growing  brightness  of  this  last,  still  chastened  by 
the  delicious  autumn  haze — captivated  his  imagination.  There 
was,  seen  thus,  a  simplicity  and  distinction  altogether  classic 
in  the  lonely  building.  To  him  it  appeared  not  unfit  shrine  for 
the  worship  of  that  same  all-pervasive  spirit  of  mystery,  not  unfit 
spot  for  the  revelation  of  that  same  glad,  yet  cunningly  elusive 
secret,  of  which  he  suffered  the  so  fond  obsession. 

And  so  it  was  that  when,  coming  abreast  of  the  building,  the 
sound  of  young  voices — women's  voices — and  finely  modulated 
laughter  saluted  his  ear,  though  startled,  for  no  stranger  had  the 
right  of  entry  to  the  park,  he  was  by  no  means  displeased. 
This  seemed  but  part  of  the  all-pervasive  magic  of  this  strange 
afternoon.  Richard  smiled  at  the  phantasies  of  his  own  mood — 
Yet  he  forgot  to  be  shy,  forgot  the  distressing  self-consciousness 
which  made  him  shrink  from  the  observation  of  strangers — 
specially  those  of  the  other  sex.  The  adventure  tempted  his 
fancy.  Even  familiar  things  had  put  on  a  new  and  beguiling 
vesture  in  the  last  half- hour,  so  there  were  miracles  abroad, 
perhaps.  Anyhow  he  would  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  aspect  of 
those  sweet-voiced  and,  as  yet,  unseen  trespassers.  He  let  his 
horse  go  forward  slowly  across  the  platform  of  turf. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  177 


CHAPTER   III 

IX   -WHICH    KICHARD    CONFIRMS    OXK   JUDGMENT   AND 
REVERSES    ANOTHER 

"  T   T  OW  magnificently  your  imagination  gallops  when  it  once 
X  J.      gets  agoing !     Here  you  are  bearing  away  the  spoils, 
when  the  siege  is  not  even  yet  begun — never  will  be,  I  venture 
to  hope,  for  I  doubt  if  this  would  be  a  very  honourable  " — 

The  speaker  broke  off,  abruptly,  as  the  shadow  of  horse  and 
rider  lengthened  upon  the  turf.  And,  during  the  silence  which 
followed,  Richard  Calmady  received  an  impression  at  once 
arresting  and  subtly  disquieting. 

A  young  lady,  of  about  his  own  age,  leaned  against  one  of 
the  white  pillars  of  the  colonnade.  Her  attitude  and  costume 
were  alike  slightly  unconventional.  She  was  unusually  tall,  and 
there  was  a  lazy,  almost  boyish  indifference  and  grace  in  the 
pose  of  her  supple  figure  and  the  gallant  carriage  of  her  small 
head.  She  wore  a  straight,  pale  grey-green  jacket,  into  the 
pockets  of  which  her  hands  were  thrust.  Her  skirt,  of  the  same 
colour  and  material,  hung  in  straight  folds  to  her  feet,  being 
innocent  alike  of  trimming  and  the  then  prevailing  fashion  of 
crinoline.  Further,  she  wore  a  little,  round  matador's  hat,  three 
black  pompoms  planted  audaciously-upstanding  above  the  left 
ear.  Her  eyes,  long  in  shape  and  set  under  straight,  observant 
brows,  appeared  at  first  sight  of  the  same  clear,  light,  warm 
brown  as  her  hair.  Her  nose  was  straight,  rather  short,  and 
delicately  square  at  the  tip.  While  her  face,  unlined,  serenely, 
indeed  triumphantly,  youthful,  was  quite  colourless  and  sufficiently 
thin  to  disclose  fine  values  of  bone  in  the  broad  forehead  and 
the  cutting  of  jaw  and  cheek  and  chin. 

In  that  silence,  as  she  and  Richard  Calmady  looked  full  at 
one  another,  he  apprehended  in  her  a  baffling  element,  a  some- 
thing untamed  and  remote,  a  freedom  of  soul,  that  declared 
itself  alike  in  the  gallantries  and  severities  of  her  dress,  her 
attitude,  and  all  the  lines  of  her  person.  She  bore  relation  to 
the  glad  mystery  haunting  the  fair  autumn  evening.  She  also 
bore  relation  to  the  chill  haunting  the  stream-side  and  the  deep 
places  of  the  woods.  And  her  immediate  action  ratified 
this  last  likeness  in  his  mind.  When  he  first  beheld  her  she 
was  bright,  with  a  certain  teasing  insouciance.  Then,  for  a 
minute,  even  more,  she  stood  at  gaze,  as  a  hind  does  suddenly 
12 


178  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

startled  on  the  edge  of  the  covert — her  head  raised,  her  face 
keen  with  inquiry.  Her  expression  changed,  became  serious, 
almost  stern.  She  recoiled,  as  in  pain,  as  in  an  approach  to 
fear — this  strong,  nymphlike  creature. 

"  Helen,"  she  called  aloud,  in  tones  of  mingled  protest  and 
warning.     And  thereupon,  without  more  ado,  she  retired,  nay, ' 
fled,  into  the  sheltering,  sun-warmed  interior  of  the  Temple. 

At  this  summons  her  companion,  who  until  now  had  stood 
contemplating  the  wide  view  from  the  extreme  verge  of  the 
platform,  wheeled  round.  For  an  appreciable  time  she,  too, 
looked  at  Richard  Calmady,  and  that  haughtily  enough,  as 
though  he,  rather  than  she,  was  the  intruder.  Her  glance 
travelled  unflinchingly  down  from  his  bare  head  and  broad 
shoulders  to  that  pocket-like  appendage — as  of  old-fashioned 
pistol  holsters — on  either  side  his  saddle.  Swiftly  her  bearing 
changed.  She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  unfeigned  and  un- 
alloyed satisfaction— a  little,  joyful  outcry,  such  as  a  child  will 
make  on  discovery  of  some  lost  treasure. 

"Ah  !  it  is  you — you!"  she  said,  laughing  softly,  while  she 
moved  forward,  both  hands  extended.  Which  hand,  by  the 
same  token,  she  proposed  to  bestow  on  Dickie  remained  matter 
for  conjecture,  since  in  the  one  she  carried  a  parasol  with  a  staff- 
like  gold  and  tortoiseshell  handle  to  it,  and  in  the  other,  between 
the  first  and  second  fingers,  a  cigarette,  the  blue  smoke  of  which 
curled  upward  in  transparent  spirals  upon  the  clear,  still  air. 

As  the  lady  of  the  grey-green  gown  retired  precipitately 
within  the  Temple,  a  wave  of  hot  blood  passed  over  Richard's 
body.  For  notwithstanding  his  three-and-twenty  years,  his  not 
contemptible  mastery  of  many  matters,  and  that  same  honour- 
able appointment  of  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  county  of 
Southampton,  he  was  but  a  lad  yet,  with  all  a  lad's  quick- 
ness of  sensitive  shame  and  burning  resentment.  The  girl's 
repulsion  had  been  obvious — that  instinctive  repulsion,  as  poor 
Dickie's  too  acute  sympathies  assured  him,  of  the  whole  for  the 
maimed,  of  the  free  for  the  bound,  of  the  artist  for  some  jarring 
colour  or  sound  which  mars  an  otherwise  entrancing  harmony. 
And  the  smart  of  all  this  was,  to  him,  doubly  salted  by  the  fact 
that  he,  after  all,  was  a  man,  his  critic  merely  a  woman.  The 
bitter  mood  of  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day  returned  upon  him. 
He  cursed  himself  for  a  doting  fool.  Who  was  he,  indeed,  to 
seek  revelation  of  glad  secrets,  cherish  fair  dreams  and  tempt 
adventures  ? 

Consequently  it  fell  out  when  that  other  lady — she  of  the 
cigarette  —  advanced  thus   delightfully  towards   him.  Richard's 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I  179 

face  was  white  with  anger,  and  his  lips  rigid  with  pain — a  rigidity 
begotten  of  the  determination  that  they  should  not  tremble  in 
altogether  too  unmanly  fashion.  Sometimes  it  is  very  sad  to  be 
young.  The  flesh  is  still  very  tender,  so  that  a  scratch  hurts 
more  then  thanja  sword-thrust  later.  Only,  let  it  be  remembered, 
the  scratch  heals  readily ;  while  of  the  sword-thrust  we  die,  even 
though  at  the  moment  of  receiving  it  we  seem  not  so  greatly  to 
suffer.  And  unquestionably  as  Dickie  sat  there,  on  his  handsome 
horse,  hat  in  hand,  looking  down  at  the  lady  of  the  cigarette,  the 
hurt  of  that  lately  received  scratch  began  quite  sensibly  to  lessen. 
For  her  eyes,  their  first  unsparing  scrutiny  accomplished,  rested 
on  his  with  a  strangely  flattering  and  engaging  insistence. 

"  But  this  is  the  very  prettiest  piece  of  good  fortune  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Had  I  arranged  the  whole  matter  to  suit  my  own 
fancy  it  could  not  have  turned  out  more  happily." 

Her  tone  was  that  of  convincing  sincerity;  while,  as  she 
spoke,  the  soft  colour  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips 
parting  showed  little,  even  teeth  daintily  precious  as  a  row  of 
pearls.  The  outline  of  her  face  was  remarkably  pure — in  shape 
an  oval,  a  trifle  wide  in  proportion  to  its  length.  Her  eyebrows 
were  arched,  the  eyelids  arched  also — very  thin,  showing  the 
movement  of  the  eyeballs  beneath  them,  drooping  slightly,  with 
a  sweep  of  dark  lashes  at  the  outer  corner.  It  struck  Richard 
that  she  bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  his  mother,  though  smaller 
and  slighter  in  build.  Her  mouth  was  less  full,  her  hair  fairer — 
soft,  glistening  hair  of  all  the  many  shades  of  heather  honey-comb, 
broken  wax,  and  sweet,  heady  liquor,  alike.  Her  hands,  he  re- 
marked, were  very  finished — the  fingers  pointed,  the  palms  rosy. 
The  set  of  her  black,  velvet  coat  revealed  the  roundness  of  her  bust. 
The  broad  brim  of  her  large,  black  hat,  slightly  upturned  at  the 
sides,  and  with  sweeping  ostrich  plumes  as  trimming  to  it,  threw 
the  upper  part  of  her  charming  face  into  soft  shadow.  Her 
heavy,  dove-coloured,  silk  skirts  stood  out  stiffly  from  her  waist, 
declaring  its  slenderness.  The  few  jewels  she  wore  were  of 
notable  value.  Her  appearance,  in  fact,  spoke  the  last  word  of 
contemporary  fashion  in  its  most  refined  application.  She  was 
a  great  lady,  who  knew  the  world  and  the  worth  of  it.  And  she 
was  absolute  mistress  both  of  that  knowledge,  and  of  herself — 
notwithstanding  those  outstretched  hands,  and  outcry  of  child- 
like pleasure, — there,  pcrha{)S,  lay  the  exfjuisite  flattery  of  this  last 
to  her  hearer  !  She  was  all  this,  and  something  more  than  all 
this.  Something  for  which  Dickie,  his  heart  still  virgin,  had  no 
name  as  yet.  It  was  new  to  his  (■x[)erience.  A  something 
clear,   simple,  and   natural,  as  the  sunlight,  yet  infinitely  subtle. 


i8o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

A  something  ravishing,  so  that  you  wanted  to  draw  it  very  close, 
hold  it,  devour  it.  Yet  something  you  so  feared,  you  needs 
must  put  it  from  you,  so  that,  faint  with  ecstasy,  standing 
at  a  distance,  you  might  bow  yourself  and  humbly  worship. 
But  sucli  extravagant  exercises  being,  in  the  nature  of  his  case, 
physically  as  well  as  socially  inadmissible,  the  young  man  was 
constrained  to  remain  seated  squarely  in  the  saddle — that 
singularly  ungainly  saddle,  moreover,  with  holster-like  appendages 
to  it — while  he  watched  her,  wholly  charmed,  curious  and  shy, 
carried  indeed  a  little  out  of  himself,  waiting  for  her  to  make 
further  disclosures,  since  he  felt  absurdly  slow  and  unready  of 
speech. 

Nor  was  he  destined  to  wait  in  vain.  The  fair  lady  appeared 
agreeably  ready  to  declare  herself,  and  that  with  the  finest  turns 
of  voice  and  manner,  with  the  most  coercive  variety  of  appeal, 
pathos,  caprice,  and  dignity. 

"  I  know  on  the  face  of  it  I  have  not  the  smallest  right  to 
have  taken  possession  in  this  way,"  she  continued.  "  It  is  the 
frankest  impertinence.  But  if  you  realised  how  extremely  I  am 
enjoying  myself,  you  could  not  fail  to  forgive  me.  All  this  park 
of  yours,  all  this  nature,"  she  turned  sideways,  sketching  out  the 
great  view  with  a  broad  gesture  of  the  cigarette  and  graceful 
hand  that  held  it,  "all  this  is  divinely  lovely.  It  is  wiser  to 
possess  oneself  of  it  in  an  illicit  manner,  to  defy  the  minor  social 
proprieties  and  unblushingly  to  steal,  than  not  to  possess  oneself 
of  it  at  all.  If  you  are  really  hungry,  you  know,  you  learn  not 
to  be  too  nice  as  to  the  ways  and  means  of  acquiring  susten- 
ance." 

"And  you  were  really  hungry?"  Richard  found  himself 
saying,  as  he  feared  rather  blunderingly.  But  he  wanted,  so 
anxiously,  the  present  to  remain  present — wanted  to  continue 
to  watch  her,  and  to  hear  her.  She  turned  his  head.  How 
then  could  he  behave  otherwise  than  with  stupidity  ? 

"  La  !  la  !  "  she  replied,  laughing  indulgently,  and  thereby 
enchanting  him  still  more,  "what  must  your  experience  of  life 
be  if  you  suppose  one  gets  a  full  meal  of  divine  loveliness  every 
day  in  the  week?  For  my  part,  I  am  not  troubled  with  any 
such  celestial  plethora,  believe  me.  I  was  ravening,  I  tell  you, 
positively  ravening." 

"  And  your  hunger  is  satisfied  ?  "  he  asked,  still  as  he  feared 
blunderingly,  and  with  a  (jueer  inward  movement  of  envy  to- 
wards the  wide  view  she  looked  upon,  and  the  glory  of  the 
sunset  which  dared  touch  her  hair. 

"Satisfied?"   she    exclaimed.       "Is    one's   hunger   for   the 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  i8r 

divinely  lovely  ever  satisfied?  Just  now  I  have  stayed  mine 
with  the  merest  mouthful  —  as  one  snatches  a  sandwich  at  a 
railway  buffet.  And  directly  I  must  get  into  the  train  again,  and 
go  on  with  my  noisy,  dusty,  stifling  journey.  Ah  !  you  are  very 
fortunate  to  live  in  this  adorable  and  restful  place ;  to  see  it  in 
all  its  fine  drama  of  changing  colour  and  season,  year  in  and 
year  out." 

She  dropped  the  end  of  her  cigarette  into  a  little,  sandy 
depression  in  the  turf,  and  drawing  aside  her  silken  skirts,  trod 
out  the  red  heart  of  it  neatly  with  her  daintily  shod  foot.  Just 
then  the  other  lady,  she  of  the  grey -green  gown,  came  from 
within  the  shelter  of  the  Temple,  and  stood  between  the  white 
pillars  of  the  colonnade.  Dick's  grasp  tightened  on  the  handle 
of  the  hunting-crop  lying  across  his  thigh. 

"  Am  I  so  very  fortunate  ?  "  he  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

His  companion  looked  up  smiling,  her  eyes  dwelling  on  his 
with  a  strange  effect  of  intimacy,  wholly  flattering,  wholly,  indeed, 
distracting  to  common  sense. 

"Yes — you  are  fortunate,"  she  answered,  speaking  slowly. 
"And  some  day,  Richard,  I  think  you  will  come  to  know  that." 

Sudden  comprehension,  sudden  recognition  struck  the  young 
man — very  literally  struck  him  a  most  unwelcome  buffet. 

"Oh!  I  see — I  understand,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  my 
cousin — you  are  Madame  de  Vallorbes." 

For  a  moment  his  sense  of  disappointment  was  so  keen,  he 
was  minded  to  turn  his  horse  and  incontinently  ride  away.  The 
misery  of  that  episode  of  his  boyhood  set  its  tooth  very  shrewdly 
in  him  even  yet.  It  seemed  the  most  cruelly  ironical  turn  of 
fate  that  this  entrancing,  this  altogether  worshipful,  stranger 
should  prove  to  lie  one  and  the  same  as  the  little  dancer  of  long 
ago  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat. 

But,  though  the  colour  deepened  somewhat  in  the  lady's 
cheeks,  she  did  not  lower  her  eyes,  nor  did  they  lose  their 
smiling  importunity.  A  little  ardour,  indeed,  heightened  the 
charm  of  her  manner — an  ardour  of  delicate  battle,  as  of  one 
whose  honour  has  been  ever  so  slightly  touched. 

"  Certainly,  I  am  your  cousin,  Helen  de  Vallorbes,"  she 
replied.  "  Vou  are  not  sorry  for  tliat,  Richard,  are  you  ?  At 
this  moment  I  am  increasingly  glad  to  be  your  cousin — thougli 
not  perhaps  so  very  particularly  glad  to  be  Helen  de  Vallorbes." 
Then  she  added,  ra[)idly  : — "WC  are  here  in  England  for  a 
few  weeks,  my  father  and  I.  'J'roui)lcsome,  distressing  things 
had  hajjpened,  and  he  perceived  I  needed  change.  He  brought 
me  away.     London  proved   a   desert   and  a  dust-heap.     There 


i82  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

■was  no  solace,  no  distraction  from  unpleasant  thoughts,  to  be 
found  there.  So  we  telegraphed  and  came  down  last  night  to  the 
kind  people  at  Newlands.  Naturally  my  father  wanted  to  sec 
Aunt  Katherine.  I  desired  to  see  her  also,  well  understood,  for 
I  have  heard  so  much  of  her  talent  and  her  great  beauty.  But  I 
knew  they — the  brother  and  sister — would  wish  to  speak  of  the 
past  and  find  their  happiness  in  being  very  sad  about  it  all.  At 
our  age — yours  and  mine — the  sadness  of  any  past  one  may 
possess  is  a  good  deal  too  present  with  one  still  to  afford  in  the 
least  consoling  subject  of  conversation." — Madame  de  Vallorbes 
spoke  with  a  certain  vehemence.  "Don't  you  think  so, 
Richard  ?  "  she  demanded. 

And  Richard  could  but  answer,  very  much  out  of  his  heart, 
that  he  did  indeed  think  so. 

She  observed  him  a  moment,  and  then  her  tone  softened. 
The  colour  deepened  yet  more  in  her  cheeks.  She  became  at 
once  prettily  embarrassed  and  prettily  sincere. 

"And  then,  to  tell  you  quite  the  truth,  I  am  a  trifle  afraid  of 
Aunt  Katherine.  I  have  always  wanted  to  come  here  and  to  see 
you,  but — it  is  an  absurd  confession  to  make- — I  have  been 
scared  at  the  idea  of  meeting  Aunt  Katherine,  and  that  is  the 
real  reason  why  I  made  Honoria  take  refuge  with  me  in  this 
lovely  park  of  yours,  instead  of  going  on  with  my  father  to  the 
house.  There  is  a  legend,  a  thrice  accursed  legend,  in  our  family, 
— my  mother  employs  it  even  yet  when  she  proposes  to  reduce 
me  to  salutary  depths  of  humility — that  I  came, — she  brought  me 
— here,  once,  long  ago,  when  I  was  a  child,  and  that  I  was 
fiendishly  naughty,  that  I  behaved  odiously." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  stretched  out  her  hands,  presenting 
the  rosy  palms  of  them  in  the  most  engaging  manner. 

"  But  it  can't — it  can't  be  true,"  she  protested.  "  Why,  in  the 
name  of  all  folly,  let  alone  all  common  decency,  should  I  behave 
odiously  ?  It  is  not  like  me.  I  love  to  please,  I  love  to  have 
people  care  for  me.  And  so  I  cannot  but  believe  the  legend  is 
the  malign  invention  of  some  nurse  or  governess,  whom,  poor 
woman,  I  probably  plagued  handsomely  enough  in  her  day,  and 
who,  in  revenge,  rigged  up  this  detestable  scarecrow  with  which 
to  frighten  me.  Then,  moreover,  I  have  not  the  faintest 
recollection  of  the  affair,  and  one  generally  has  an  only  too  vivid 
memory  of  one's  own  sins.  Surely,  mon  cher  cousin,  surely  I  am 
innocent  in  your  sight,  as  in  my  own  ?  You  do  not  remember 
the  episode  either?" 

Whereupon  Dickie,  looking  down  at  her, — and  still  enchanted 
notwithstanding  his  so  sinister  discovery,  being  first,  and  always  a 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  183 

gentleman,  and  secondly,  though  as  yet  unconsciously,  a  lover, — 
proceeded  to  lie  roundly.  Lied,  too,  with  a  notable  cheerfulness 
born,  as  cheerfulness  needs  must  be,  of  every  act  of  faith  and 
high  generosity. 

"I  remember  it?  Of  course  not,"  he  said.  "So  let  the 
legend  be  abolished  henceforth  and  for  evermore.  Here,  once 
and  for  all,  cousin  Helen,  we  combine  to  pull  down  and  bury 
that  scarecrow." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clapped  her  hands  softly  and  laughed. 
And  her  laughter,  having  the  merit  of  being  perfectly  genuine — 
for  the  young  man  very  really  pleased  her  fancy — was  likewise 
very  infectious.  Richard  found  himself  laughing  too,  he  knew 
not  why,  save  that  he  was  glad  of  heart. 

"  And  now  that  matter  being  satisfactorily  disposed  of,  you 
will  come  to  Brockhurst  often,"  he  said.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
a  certain  joyous  equality  had  been  established  between  him  and 
his  divinity,  both  by  his  repudiation  of  all  former  knowledge  of 
her,  and  by  their  moment  of  laughter.  He  began  fearlessly  to 
make  her  little  offerings. — "Do  you  care  about  riding?  lam 
afraid  there  is  not  much  to  amuse  you  at  Brockhurst ;  but  there 
are  always  plenty  of  horses." 

"  And  I  adore  horses." 

"Do  you  care  about  racing?  We've  some  rather  pretty 
things  in  training  this  year.  I  should  like  awfully  to  show  them 
to  you." 

But  here  the  conversation,  just  setting  forth  in  so  agreeable  a 
fashion,  suffered  interruption.  For  the  other  lady,  she  of  the 
grey -green  gown,  sauntered  forward  from  the  Temple.  The 
carriage  of  her  head  was  gallant,  her  air  nonchalant  as  ever;  but 
her  expression  was  grave,  and  the  delicate  thinness  of  her  face 
appeared  a  trifle  accentuated.  She  came  up  to  Madame  dc 
Vallorbes  and  passed  her  hand  through  the  latter's  arm  caress- 
ingly. 

"  You  know,  really,  Helen,  we  ought  to  go,  if  we  are  not  to 
keep  your  father  and  the  carriage  waiting."— Then  she  looked  up 
with  a  certain  determined  effort  at  Richard  Calmady.  "We 
I)romi.sed  to  meet  Mr.  Ormiston  at  the  first  park  gate,"  she 
added  in  explanation,  "'i'hat  is  nearly  a  mile  from  here,  isn't 
it?" 

"About  three-quarters — hardly  thai,"  he  answered.  Her 
eyes  were  not  brown,  he  jjcrceived,  but  a  clear,  dim  green,  as  the 
soft  gloom  in  the  undcr-spaces  of  a  grove  of  ilexes.  'I'liey 
affected  him  as  fearlessly  observant — eyes  that  could  judge  both 
men  and  things  and  could  also  keep  their  own  counsel. 


iS4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Will  you  give  your  mother  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  love, 
please  ?  "  she  went  on.  "  I  stayed  here  with  her  for  a  couple  of 
days  the  year  before  last,  while  you  were  at  Oxford.  She  was 
very  good  to  me.     Now,  Helen,  come  "— 

"  I  shall  see  you  again,"  Richard  cried  to  the  lady  of  the 
cigarette.  But  his  horse,  which  for  some  minutes  had  been 
increasingly  fidgety,  backed  away  down  the  hillside,  and  he 
could  not  catch  the  purport  of  her  answer.  To  the  lady  of  the 
grey-green  gown  and  eyes  he  said  nothing  at  all. 


CHAPTER    IV 

JITLIUS    ^lARCH    BEARS    TESTIMOXV 

"  OO  you  really  wish  me  to  ask  them  both  to  come, 
O  Richard?" 
Lady  Calmady  stood  on  the  tiger-skin  before  the  Gun- 
Room  hearth.  Upon  the  said  hearth  a  merry,  little  fire  of 
pine  logs  clicked  and  chattered.  Even  here,  on  the  dry 
upland,  the  night  air  had  an  edge  to  it ;  while  in  the  valleys 
there  would  be  frost  before  morning,  ripening  that  same 
splendour  of  autumn  foliage  alike  to  greater  glory  and  swifter 
fall.  And  the  snap  in  the  air,  working  along  with  other 
unwonted  influences,  made  Katherine  somewhat  restless  this 
evening.  Her  eyes  were  dark  with  unspoken  thought.  Her 
voice  had  a  ring  in  it.  The  shimmering,  black,  satin  dress 
and  fine  lace  she  wore  gave  a  certain  magnificence  to  her 
appearance.  Her  whole  being  was  vibrant.  She  was  rather 
dangerously  alive.  Her  elder  brother's  unlooked-for  advent 
had  awakened  her  strangely  from  the  reserve  and  stately 
monotony  of  her  daily  existence,  had  shaken  even,  for  the 
moment,  the  completeness  of  the  dominion  of  her  fixed  idea. 
She  ceased,  for  the  moment,  to  sink  the  whole  of  her  personality 
in  the  maternal  relationship.  Memories  of  her  youth,  passed 
amid  the  varied  interests  of  society  and  of  the  literary  and 
political  world  of  Paris  and  London,  assailed  her.  All  those 
other  Katherines,  in  short,  whom  she  might  have  been,  and 
who"  had  seemed  to  drop  away  from  her,  vanishing  phantom- 
like before  the  uncompromising  realities  of  her  husband's  death 
and  her  child's  birth,  crowded  about  her,  importuning  her  with 
vague  desires,  vague  regrets.  The  confines  of  Brockhurst  grew 
narrow,  Tvhile  all  that  which  lay  beyond  them  called  to  her. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  185 

She  craved,  almost  unconsciously,  a  wider  sphere  of  action. 
She  longed  to  obtain,  and  to  lend  a  hand  in  the  shaping  of 
events  and  making  of  history.  Even  the  purest  and  most 
devoted  among  women — possessing  the  doubtful  blessing  of  a 
measure  of  intellect — are  subject  to  such  vagrant  heats,  such 
uprisings  of  personal  ambition,  specially  during  the  dangerous 
decade  when  the  nine-and-thirtieth  year  is  past. 

Meanwhile  Richard's  answer  to  her  question  was  un- 
fortunately somewhat  over-long  in  coming,  for  the  young  man 
was  sunk  in  meditation  and  apparently  oblivious  of  her 
presence.  He  leaned  back  in  the  long,  low  arm-chair,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  the  embroidered  rug  drawn 
about  his  waist,  a  venerable,  yellow-edged,  calf-bound  volume 
lying  face  downwards  on  his  lap.  While  young  Camp — young 
no  longer,  full  of  years  indeed  beyond  the  allotted  portion  of 
his  kind — reposed,  outstretched  and  snoring,  on  the  all-too-wide 
space  of  rug  and  chair-seat  at  his  feet.  And  this  indifference, 
both  of  man  and  dog,  grew  irksome  to  Lady  Calmady.  She 
moved  across  the  shining  yellow  and  black  surface  of  the 
tiger-skin  and  straightened  the  bronzes  of  Vinedresser  and 
Lazy  Lad  standing  on  the  high  chimneypiece. 

"My  dear,  it  grows  late,"  she  said.  "Let  us  settle  this 
matter.  If  your  uncle  and  cousin  are  to  come,  I  must  send 
a  note  over  to  Newlands  to  -  morrow  before  breakfast.  Re- 
member I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  I  leave  it  entirely 
to  you.     Tell  me  seriously  what  you  wish." 

Richard  stretched  himself,  turning  his  head  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hands,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  would  thank  you  so  heartily  to  tell 
me,"  he  answered.  "  Do  I,  or  don't  I  seriously  wish  it  ?  I  give 
you  my  word,  mother,  I  don't  know." 

"Oh;  but,  my  dearest,  that  is  folly!  You  must  have  in- 
clination enough,  one  way  or  the  other,  to  come  to  a  decision. 
I  was  careful  not  to  commit  myself.  It  is  still  easy  not  to  ask 
them  without  being  guilty  of  any  discourtesy." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  Richard  said.  "  It  is  simply  that  being  any- 
thing but  heroic  I  am  trying  of  two  evils  to  choose  the  least. 
I  should  like  to  have  my  uncle — and  Helen — here  immensely. 
But  if  the  visit  wasn't  a  success  I  should  be  proportionately 
disappointed  and  vexed.  So  is  it  worth  the  risk  ?  Disajjpoint- 
ments  are  sufficiently  abundant  anyhow.  Isn't  it  slightly 
imbecile  to  run  a  wholly  gratuitous  risk  of  adding  to  their 
number?" 

Then  the  fixed  idea  began  stealthily,  yet  surely,  to  reassert 


i86  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

its  dominion  ;  for  there  was  a  perceptible  flavour  of  discourage- 
ment in  the  young  man's  speech. 

"  Dickie,  there  is  nothing  wrong,  is  there,  —  nothing  the 
matter,  to-night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  of  course  not ! "  he  answered,  half  closing  his 
-eyes.     "  Nothing  in  the  world's  the  matter." 

He  unclasped  his  hands,  leaned  forward  and  patted  the  bull- 
dog lying  across  the  rug  at  his  feet. — "At  least  nothing  more 
than  usual,  nothing  more  than  the  abiding  something  which 
always  has  been  and  always  will  be  the  matter." 

'  Ah,  my  dear  !  "  Katherine  cried  softly. 

"  I've  just  been  reading  Burton's  Anatomy  here,"  he  went  on 
bending  down,  so  that  his  face  was  hidden,  while  he  pulled  the 
•dog's  soft  ears.  "  He  assures  all — whom  it  may  concern — that 
'  bodily  imperfections  do  not  a  whit  blemish  the  soul  or  hinder 
the  operations  of  it,  but  rather  help  and  much  increase  it.' 
There,  Camp,  poor  old  man,  don't  start — it's  nothing  worse 
than  me.  I  wonder  if  the  elaborate  pains  which  have  been 
taken  through  generations  of  your  ancestors  to  breed  you  into 
your  existing  and  very  royal  hideousness — your  flattened  nose 
and  perpetual  grin,  for  instance — do  help  and  much  increase  the 
operations  of  your  soul !  " 

He  looked  up  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  think,  mother?" 

"  I  think  —  think,  my  darling,"  she  said,  "  that  perhaps 
neither  you  nor  I  are  quite  ourselves  to-night." 

"  Oh,  well  I've  had  rather  a  beastly  day  ! " — Richard  dropped 
back  against  the  chair  cushions  again,  clasping  his  hands  behind 
his  head.  "  Or  I've  seemed  to  have  it,  which  comes  practically 
to  much  the  same  thing.  I  confess  I  have  been  rather  hipped 
lately.  I  suppose  it's  the  weather.  You're  not  really  in  a 
hurry,  mother,  are  you  ?     Come  and  sit  down." 

And  obediently  Katherine  drew  forward  a  chair  and  sat  beside 
him.  Those  uprisings  of  vagrant  desire  still  struggled,  com- 
bating the  dominion  of  the  fixed  idea.  But  the  struggle  grew 
faint  and  fainter.  And  then,  for  a  measurable  time,  Richard 
fell  silent  again  while  she  waited.  Yerily  there  is  no  sharper 
discipline  for  a  woman's  proud  spirit,  than  that  administered, 
■often  quite  unconsciously,  by  the  man  whom  she  loves. 

"  \Ve  gave  a  wretched  girl  six  weeks  to-day  for  robbing  her 
mistress,"  he  remarked  at  last.  "It  was  a  flagrant  case,  so  1 
suppose  we  were  justified.  In  fact  I  don't  see  how  we  could 
have  done  otherwise.  But  it  went  against  me  awfully,  all  the 
same.     She  has  a  child  to  support.     Jim  Gould  got  her  into 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  187 

trouble  and  deserted  her,  like  a  cowardly,  young  blackguard. 
However,  it's  easy  to  be  righteous  at  another  person's  expense. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  done  the  same  in  his  place.  I  wonder  if 
I  should?"— 

"  My  dear,  we  need  hardly  discuss  that  point,  I  think," 
Lady  Calmady  said. 

Richard  turned  his  head  and  smiled  at  her. 

"Poor  dear  mother,  do  I  bore  you?  But  it  is  so  comfort- 
able to  grumble.  I  know  it's  selfish.  It's  a  horrid  bad  habit, 
and  you  ought  to  blow  me  up  for  it.  But  then,  mother,  take  it 
all  round,  really  I  don't  grumble  much,  do  I  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  Katherine  said  quickly.  "  Indeed,  Dickie,  you 
don't." 

"  I  have  been  awfully  afraid  though,  lately,  that  I  do 
grumble  more  than  I  imagine,"  he  went  on,  straightening  his 
head,  while  his  handsome  profile  showed  clear  cut  against  the 
dancing  brightness  of  the  firelight.  "But  it's  almost  impossible 
always  to  carry  something  about  with  you  which — which  you 
hate,  and  not  let  it  infect  your  attitude  of  mind  and,  in  a  degree, 
your  speech.  Twenty  or  thirty  years  hence  it  may  prove 
altogether  sufficient  and  satisflictory  to  know" — his  lips  worked, 
obliging  him  to  enunciate  his  words  carefully — "that  bodily 
imperfections  do  not  a  whit  blemish  the  soul  or  hinder  its 
operations  —  are,  in  short,  an  added  means  of  grace.  Thi.ik 
of  it !  Isn't  it  a  nice,  neat,  little  arrangement,  sort  of  spiritual 
consolation  stakes !  Only  I'm  afraid  I'm  some  two  or  three 
decades  on  the  near  side  of  that  comfortable  conclusion  yet, 
and  I  find"— 

Richard  shifted  his  position,  letting  his  arms  drop  along  the 
chair  arms  with  a  little  thud.  He  smiled  again,  or  at  all  events 
essayed  to  do  so. 

"In  fact,  I  find  it's  beastly  difficult  to  care  a  hang  about 
your  soul,  one  way  or  another,  when  you  clearly  perceive  your 
body's  making  you  the  laughing-stock  of  half  the  people — why, 
mother,  sweet  dear  mother, — what  is  it  ?  " 

For  Lady  Calmady's  two  hands  had  closed  down  on  his 
hand,  and  she  bowed  herself  above  them  as  though  smitten 
with  sharp  j)ain. 

"Pray  don't  be  distressed,"  he  went  on.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  wasn't  thinking  what  I  was  saying,  I'm  an  ass. 
It's  nothing  I  tell  you  but  the  weather.  You're  all  a  lot  too 
good  to  me  and  indulge  mc  too  much,  and  I  grow  soft,  and 
then  every  trifle  rubs  me  the  wrong  way.  I'm  a  regular  spoilt 
child — I  know  it,  and  a  jolly  good  spanking  is  what  I  deserve. 


i8S  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Burton,  here,  declares  that  the  autumnal,  like  the  vernal,  equinox 
breeds  hot  humours  and  distempers  in  the  blood.  I  believe  we 
ought  to  be  bled,  spring  and  fall,  like  our  forefathers.  Look 
here,  mother,  don't  take  my  grumbling  to  heart.  I  tell  you  I'm 
just  a  little  hipped  from  the  weather.  Let's  send  for  dear  old 
Knott  and  get  him  to  drive  out  the  devil  with  his  lancet !  No, 
no,  seriously,  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  It'll  be  good  for  us 
both.  I  have  arrived  at  a  decision.  We'll  have  uncle  William 
and — Helen" — 

Richard  had  spoken  very  rapidly,  half  ashamed,  trying  to 
soothe  her.  He  paused  on  the  last  word.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  singular  pleasure  in  pronouncing  it.  The  perfectly  finished 
figure  of  his  cousin,  outstanding  against  the  wide,  misty  bright 
ness  of  the  sunset,  the  scent  of  the  wood  and  moorland,  the 
haunting  suggestion  of  glad  secrets,  even  that  upcurling  of  blue 
cigarette  smoke,  rising  as  the  smoke  of  incense — with  a  difference 
— upon  the  clear,  evening  air,  above  all  that  silent  flattery  of 
intimate  and  fearless  glances,  those  gay  welcoming  gestures, 
that  merry  calling,  as  of  birds  in  the  tree-tops,  from  the  spirit 
of  youth  within  him  to  the  spirit  of  youth  so  visibly  and 
radiantly  resident  in  her — all  this  rose  up  before  Richard.  He 
grew  reckless,  though  reckless  of  precisely  what,  innocent  as 
he  was  in  fact  although  mature  in  learning,  he  knew  not  as 
yet.  Only  he  turned  on  his  mother  a  face  at  once  eager  and 
shy,  coaxing  her  as  when  in  his  long-ago  baby-days  he  had 
implored  some  petty  indulgence  or  the  gift  of  some  coveted 
toy  on  which  his  little  heart  was  set. 

"  Yes,  let  us  have  them,"  he  said.  "  You  know  Helen  is 
very  charming.  You  will  admire  her,  mother.  She  is  as  clever 
as  she  can  stick,  one  sees  that  at  a  glance.  And  she  is  very 
much  grande  davie  too — and,  oh,  well,  she  is  a  whole  lot  of 
charming  things  !  And  her  coming  would  be  a  wholesome 
breaking  up  of  our  ordinary  ways  of  going  on.  We  are  usually 
very  contented — at  least,  I  think  so — you,  and  dear  Julius, 
and  I,  but  perhaps  we  are  getting  into  a  bit  of  a  rut.  Helen's 
society  might  prove  an  even  more  efficacious  method  of  driving 
out  my  blue-devils  than  Knott's  lancet  or  a  jolly  good  spank- 
ing." 

He  laughed  quietly,  patting  Katherine's  hand,  but  looking 
away. 

"  And  there  is  no  denying  it  would  be  a  vastly  more  graceful 
one — don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Thus  were  smouldering  fires  of  personal  ambition  quenched 
in    Lady  Calmady,  as    so    often    before.     Richard's   tenderness 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I  189 

brought  her  to  her  knees.  She  hugged,  with  an  almost  voluptu- 
ous movement  of  passion,  that  half-rejected  burden  of  maternity, 
gathering  it  close  against  her  heart  once  more.  But,  along  with 
the  rapture  of  self-surrender,  came  a  thousand  familiar  fears  and 
anxieties.  For  she  had  looked  into  Dickie's  mind,  as  he  spoke 
out  his  grumble,  and  had  there  perceived  the  existence  of  much 
which  she  had  dreaded  and  to  the  existence  of  which  she  had 
striven  to  blind  herself. 

"  My  darling,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  hesitation,  "  I  will 
gladly  have  them  if  you  wish  it — only  you  remember  what 
happened  long  ago,  when  Helen  was  here  last  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  of  that.  But 
you  can  put  that  aside.  Helen's  not  the  smallest  recollection  of 
it.     She  told  me  so  this  afternoon." 

"Told  you  so  ?"  Katherine  repeated. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  was  awfully  sweet  of  her.  Evidently 
she'd  been  bullied  about  her  unseemly  behaviour  when  she  was 
small,  till  you,  and  I,  and  Brockhurst,  had  been  made  into  a 
perfect  bugbear.  She's  quite  amusingly  afraid  of  you  still.  But 
she's  no  notion  what  really  happened.  Of  course  she  can't  have, 
or  she  could  not  have  mentioned  the  subject  to  me." — Richard 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Obviously  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible.' 

There  was  a  pause.  Lady  Calmady  rose.  The  young  man 
spoke  with  conviction,  yet  her  anxiety  was  not  altogether  allayed. 

"  Impossible,"  he  repeated.  "  Pretty  mother,  don't  disquiet 
yourself.  Trust  me.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  felt  to-day — 
is  it  very  foolish? — that  I  should  like  someone  of  my  own  age 
for  a  little  while,  as — don't  you  know — a  playfellow." 

Katherine  bent  down  and  kissed  him.  But  mother-love  is 
not,  even  in  its  most  self-sacrificing  expression,  without  torments 
of  jealousy. 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  have  your  playfellow,"  she  said,  though 
conscious  of  a  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  her  beautiful  throat. 
"Good-night.     Sleep  well." 

She  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  The  pcrspcclive 
of  the  dimly-lighted  corridor,  and  the  great  hall  beyond,  struck 
her  as  rather  sadly  lifeless  and  silent.  AVhat  wonder,  indeed, 
that  Richard  should  ask  for  a  comi)anion,  for  something  young ! 
Love  made  her  selfish  and  cowardly  she  feared.  Siie  should 
have  thought  of  this  before.  She  turned  back,  again  opening 
the  GunKoom  door. 

Richard  had  raised  himself.  He  stood  on  the  scat  of  the 
chair,  steadying  himself  by  one  hand  on  the  chair-back,  while 


I90  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

with  the  other  he  pulled  the  rug  from  beneath  the  sleepy  hull- 
dog. 

"  Wake  up,  you  lazy,  old  beggar,"  he  was  saying.  "  Get  down 
can't  you  ?  I  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  you  block  the  way,  lying 
there  in  gross  comfort,  snoring.  Make  yourself  scarce,  old  man  ! 
If  I'd  your  natural  advantages  in  the  way  of  locomotion,  I 
wouldn't  be  so  slow  in  using  them  " — 

He  looked  up,  and  slipped  back  into  a  sitting  position 
hastily- 

"Oh,  mother,  I  thought  you  had  gone!"  he  exclaimed, 
almost  sharply. 

And  to  Katherine,  overstrung  as  she  was,  the  words  came 
as  a  rebuke. 

"My  dearest,  I  won't  keep  you,"  she  said.  "I  only  came 
back  to  ask  you  about  Honoria  St.  Quentin." 

"  What  about  her  ?  " 

"She  is  staying  at  Newlands — the  two  girls  are  friends,  I 
believe.  She  seemed  to  me  a  fine  creature  when  last  I  saw 
her.  She  knows  the  world,  yet  struck  me  curiously  untouched 
by  it.  She  is  well  read,  she  has  ideas — some  of  them  a  little 
extravagant,  but  time  will  modify  that.  Only  her  head  is  awake 
as  yet,  not  her  heart,  I  think.     Shall  I  ask  her  to  come  too  ?  " 

"So  that  we  may  wake  up  her  heart?"  Richard  inquired 
coldly.  "  No  thanks,  dear  mother,  that's  too  serious  an  under- 
taking. Have  her  another  time,  please.  I  saw  her  to-day,  and, 
no  doubt  my  taste  is  bad,  but  I  must  confess  she  did  not 
please  me  very  much.  Nor — which  is  more  to  the  point  in  this 
connection  perhaps — did  I  please  her. — Would  you  ring  the  bell, 
please,  as  you're  there?  I  want  Powell.  Thanks  so  much. 
Good-night." 

Some  ten  minutes  later  Julius  March,  after  kneeling  in 
prayer,  as  his  custom  was,  before  the  divinely  sorrowful  and 
compassionate  image  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and  the  Dead  Christ, 
looked  forth  through  the  many-paned  study  window  into  the 
clair-obscure  of  the  windless,  autumn  night.  He  had  been 
sensible  of  an  unusual  element  in  the  domestic  atmosphere  this 
evening,  and  had  been  vaguely  disquieted  concerning  both 
Katherine  and  Richard.  It  was  impossible  but  that,  as  time 
went  on,  life  should  become  more  complicated  at  Brockhurst, 
and  Julius  feared  his  own  inability  to  cope  helpfully  with  such 
complication.  He  entertained  a  mean  opinion  of  himself.  It 
appeared  to  him  he  was  but  an  unprofitable  servant,  unready, 
tongue-tied,  lacking  in  resource.  A  depression  possessed 
him   which   he  could  not  shake  off.     What  had  he  to  show, 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  191 

after  all,  for  these  fifty  odd  years  of  life  granted  to  him  ?  He- 
feared  his  religion  had  walked  in  silver  slippers,  and  would  so- 
walk  to  the  end.  Could  it  then,  in  any  true  and  vital  sense^ 
be  reckoned  religion  at  all  ?  Gross  sins  had  never  exercised 
any  attraction  over  him.  What  virtue  was  there,  then,  in  being 
innocent  of  gross  sin?  But  to  those  other  sins — sins  of  de- 
fective moral  courage  in  speech  and  action,  sins  arising  from 
over-fastidiousness — had  he  not  yielded  freely  ?  Was  he  not  a 
spiritual  valetudinarian  ?  He  feared  so.  Offered,  in  the  Eternal 
Mercy,  endless  precious  opportunities  of  service,  he  had  been 
too  weak,  too  timorous,  too  slothful,  to  lay  hold  on  them.  And 
so,  as  it  seemed  to  him  very  justly,  to-night  confession,  prayer, 
worship,  left  him  unconsoled. 

Then,  looking  out  of  the  many  -  paned  window  while  the 
shame  of  his  barrenness  clothed  him  even  as  a  garment,  he 
beheld  Lady  Calmady  pacing  slowly  over  the  grey  quarries  of 
the  terrace  pavement.  A  dark,  fur-bordered  mantle  shrouded 
her  tall  figure  from  head  to  foot.  Only  her  face  showed,  and 
her  hands  folded  stiffly  high  upon  her  bosom,  strangely  pale 
against  the  blackness  of  her  cloak.  Ordinarily  Julius  would 
have  scrupled  to  intrude  upon  her  lonely  walk.  But  just  now 
the  cr}'  within  him  for  human  sympathy  was  urgent.  Her  near 
neighbourhood  in  itself  was  very  dear  to  him,  and  she  might  let 
fall  some  gracious  word  testifying  that,  in  her  opinion  at  least, 
his  life  had  not  been  wholly  vain.  For  very  surely  that  which 
survives  when  all  other  passions  are  uprooted  and  cast  forth — 
survives  even  in  the  case  of  the  true  ascetic  and  saint — is  the 
unquenchable  yearning  for  the  spoken  approval  of  those  whom 
we  love  and  have  loved. 

And  so,  pushed  by  his  poverty  of  self-esteem,  Julius  March, 
throwing  a  plaid  on  over  his  cassock,  went  out  and  paced  the 
grey  quarries  beside  Katherine  Calmady. 

On  one  hand  rose  the  dark,  rectangular  masses  of  the  house, 
crowned  by  its  stacks  of  slender,  twisted  chimney.s.  On  the 
other  lay  the  indefinite  and  dusky  expanse  of  the  park  and 
forest.  The  night  was  very  clear.  The  stars  were  innumerable 
—  fierce,  cold  points  of  pulsing  light. — Orion's  jewelled  belt  and 
sword  flung  wide  against  the  blue -black  vault.  Cassiopeia 
seated  majestic  in  her  golden  chair.  Northward,  above  the 
walled  gardens,  the  Jiear  pointing  to  the  diamond  Hashing  of  the 
Pole  star.  While  across  all  high  heaven,  dusty  with  incalculable 
myriads  of  worlds,  stretched  the  awful  and  mysterious  highroad 
of  the  Milky-Way.  The  air  was  keen  and  tonic  though  so  still. 
An  immense  and   fearless  fiuiet  seemed  to  hold  all  things — a 


1-92  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

quiet  not  of  sleep,  but  of  conscious  and  perfect  equilibrium,  a 
harmony  so  sustained  and  absolute  that  to  human  ears  it  issued, 
of  necessity,  in  silence. 

And  that  silence  Lady  Calmady  was  in  no  haste  to  break. 
Twice  she  and  her  companion  walked  the  length  of  the  terrace, 
and  back,  before  she  spoke.  She  paused,  at  length,  just  short 
of  the  arcade  of  the  farther  garden-hall. 

"  This  great  peace  of  the  night  puts  all  violence  of  feeling  to 
the  blush,"  she  said.  "One  perceives  that  a  thousand  years  arc 
very  really  as  one  day.     That  calms  one — with  a  vengeance." 

Katherine  waited,  looking  out  over  the  vague  landscape, 
■clasping  the  fur-bordered  edges  of  her  cloak  with  either  hand. 
It  appeared  to  Julius  that  both  her  voice  and  the  expression  of 
her  face  w-ere  touched  with  irony. 

"There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,"  she  went  on,  "nor 
under  the  'visiting  moon,'  nor  under  those  somewhat  heartless 
stars.  Does  it  occur  to  you,  Julius,  how  hopelessly  unoriginal 
we  are,  how  we  all  follow  in  the  same  beaten  track  ?  What 
thousands  of  men  and  women  have  stood,  as  you  and  I  stand 
now,  at  once  calmed — as  I  admit  that  I  am — and  rendered  not 
a  little  homeless  by  the  realisation  of  their  own  insignificance  in 
face  of  the  sleeping  earth  and  this  brooding  immensity  of  space  ! 
A  qicoi  ban,  d  quoi  bon  ?  Why  can't  one  learn  to  harden  one's 
poor  silly  heart,  and  just  move  round,  stone-like,  with  the  great 
movement  of  things,  accepting  fate  and  ceasing  to  struggle  or 
to  care  ?  " 

"  Just  because,  I  think,"  he  answered,  "the  converse  of  that 
same  saying  is  equally  true.  If,  in  material  things,  a  thousand 
years  are  as  one  day,  in  the  things  of  the  spirit  one  day  is  as  a 
thousand  years.  Remember  the  Christ  crying  upon  the  cross, 
*  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? '  and  suffering, 
during  that  brief  utterance,  the  sum  of  all  the  agony  of  sensible 
insignificance  and  sensible  homelessness  human  nature  ever  has 
borne  or  will  bear." 

"  Ah,  the  Christ !  the  Christ ! "  Lady  Calmady  exclaimed, 
half  wistfully  as  it  seemed  to  Julius  March,  and  half  impatiently. 
She  turned  and  paced  the  pale  pavement  again. 

"  You  are  too  courteous,  my  dear  friend,  and  cite  an  example 
august  out  of  all  proportion  to  my  little  lament." — She  looked 
round  at  him  as  she  spoke,  smiling ;  and  in  the  uncertain  light 
her  smile  showed  tremulous,  suggestive  of  a  nearness  to  tears. 
"Instinctively  you  scale  Olympus, — Calvary? — yes,  but  I  am 
afraid  both  those  heights  take  on  an  equally  and  tragically 
mythological  character  to  me — and  would  bring  me  consolation 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  193 

from  the  dwelling-places  of  the  gods.  And  my  feet,  all  the 
while,  are  very  much  upon  the  floor,  alas  !  That  is  happening 
to  me  which  never  yet  happened  to  the  gods,  according  to  the 
orthodox  authorities.  Just  this — a  commonplace — dear  JuHus, 
I  am  growing  old." 

Katherine  drew  her  cloak  more  severely  about  her  and  moved 
on  hastily,  her  head  a  little  bent. 

"  No,  no,  don't  deny  it,"  she  added,  as  he  attempted  to  speak. 
"We  can  be  honest  and  dispense  with  conventional  phrases, 
here,  alone,  under  the  stars.  I  am  growing  old,  Julius — and 
being,  I  suppose,  but  a  vain,  doting  woman,  I  have  only  dis- 
covered what  that  really  means  to  -  day  !  But  there  is  this 
excuse  for  me.  My  youth  was  so  blessed,  so  —  so  glorious, 
that  it  was  natural  I  should  strive  to  delude  myself  regarding  its 
passing  away.  I  perceive  that  for  years  I  have  continued  to  call 
that  a  bride-bed  which  was,  in  truth,  a  bier.  I  have  struggled  to 
keep  my  youth  in  fancy,  as  I  have  kept  the  red  drawing-room 
in  fact,  unaltered.  Is  not  all  this  pitifully  vain  and  self- 
indulgent  ?  I  have  solaced  myself  with  the  phantom  of  youth. 
And  I  am  old— old." 

"  But  you  are  yourself,  Katherine,  yourself  Nothing  that 
has  been,  has  ceased  to  be,"  Julius  broke  in,  unable  in  the  ful- 
ness of  his  reverent  honour  for  his  dear  lady  to  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  her  present  bitterness.  "  Surely  the  mere  adding  of 
year  to  year  can  make  no  so  vital  difference  ?  " 

"Ah!  you  dear  stupid  creature,"  she  cried, —  "stupid, 
because,  manlike,  you  are  so  hopelessly  sensible — it  makes  just 
all  the  difference  in  the  world.  I  shall  grow  less  alert,  less 
pliable  of  mind,  less  quick  of  sympathy,  less  capable  of  adjusting 
myself  to  altered  conditions,  and  to  the  entertaining  of  new  views. 
And,  all  the  while,  the  demand  upon  me  will  not  lessen," 

Katherine  stopped  suddenly  in  her  swift  walk.  The  two 
stood  facing  one  another. 

"The  demand  will  increase,"  she  declared.  "  Richard  is  not 
happy." 

And  thereupon — since,  even  in  the  most  devout  and  holy, 
the  old  Adam  dies  extremely  hard — Julius  March  fell  a  prey  to 
very  lively  irritation.  While  she  talked  of  herself,  bestowing 
unreserved  confidence  upon  him,  he  could  listen  gladly  forever. 
But  if  that  most  welcome  subject  of  conversation  should  be 
dropped,  let  her  give  him  that  which  he  craved  to-night,  so 
specially — a  word  for  himself.  Let  her  deal,  for  a  little  space, 
with  his  own  firivate  needs,  his  own  private  joys  and  sorrows. 
'  Ah  !   Richard  is  not  happy  ' "   he  exclaimed,  his  irritation 

'3 


K 


194  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

finding  voice.  "  We  reach  the  root  of  the  matter.  Richard  is 
not  happy.     Alas,  then,  for  Richard's  mother  ! " 

"  Are  you  so  much  surprised  ? "  Katherine  asked  hotly. 
"  Do  you  venture  to  blame  him  ?  If  so,  I  am  afraid  religion  has 
made  you  rather  cruel,  Julius.  But  that  is  not  a  new  thing 
under  the  sun  either.  Those  who  possess  high  spiritual  con- 
solations— unknown  to  the  rank  and  file  of  us — have  generally 
displayed  an  inclination  to  take  the  misfortunes  of  others  with 
admirable  resignation.  Dearest  Marie  de  Mirancourt  was  an 
exception  to  that  rule.  You  might  do  worse  perhaps  than  learn 
to  follow  her  example." 

As  she  finished  speaking  Lady  Calmady  turned  from  him 
rather  loftily,  and  prepared  to  move  away.  But  even  in  so 
doing  she  received  an  impression  which  tended  to  modify  her 
resentful  humour. 

For  an  instant  Julius  March  stood,  a  tall,  thin,  black  figure, 
rigid  and  shadowless  upon  the  pallor  of  the  grey  pavement,  his 
arms  extended  wide,  as  one  crucified,  while  he  looked,  not  at 
her,  not  out  into  the  repose  of  the  night-swathed  landscape,  but 
up  at  the  silent  dance  of  the  eternal  stars  in  the  limitless  fields 
of  space.  As  Katherine,  earlier  in  the  evening,  had  taken  up 
the  momentarily  rejected  burden  of  her  motherhood,  so  Julius 
now,  with  a  movement  of  supreme  self-surrender,  took  up  the 
momentarily  rejected  burden  of  the  isolation  of  the  religious 
life.  Self-wounded  by  self-love,  he  had  sought  comfort  in  the 
creature  rather  than  the  Creator.  And  the  creature  turned  and 
rebuked  him.  It  was  just.  Now  Julius  gave  himself  back, 
bowed  himself  again  under  the  dominion  of  his  fixed  idea;  and, 
so  doing,  gained,  unconsciously,  precisely  that  which  he  had 
gone  forth  to  seek.  For  Katherine,  struck  alike  by  the  strange 
vigour,  and  strange  resignation,  of  his  attitude,  suffered  quick 
fear,  not  only  for,  but  of  him.     His  aloofness  alarmed  her. 

"Julius!  dear  Julius!"  she  cried.  " Come,  let  us  walk.  It 
grows  cold.  I  enjoy  that,  but  it  is  not  very  safe  for  you.  And, 
pardon  me,  dear  friend,  if  I  spoke  harshly  just  now.  I  told  you 
I  was  getting  old.  Put  my  words  down  to  the  peevishness  of  old 
age  then." 

Katherine  smiled  at  him  with  a  sweet,  half-playful  humility. 
Her  face  was  very  wan.  And  speech  not  coming  immediately 
to  him,  she  spoke  again. 

"  You  have  always  been  very  patient  with  me.  You  must  go 
on  being  so." 

"  I  ask  nothing  better,"  Julius  said. 

Lady  Calmady  stopped,  drew  herself  up,  shook  back  her  head. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  195 

"Ah!  what  sorry  creatures  we  all  are,"  she  cried,  rather 
bitterly.  "  Discontented,  unstable,  forever  kicking  against  the 
pricks,  and  fighting  against  the  inevitable.  Always  crying  to  one 
another,  '  See  how  hard  this  is,  know  how  it  hurts,  feel  the 
weight ! '  My  poor  darling  cries  to  me — that  is  natural  enough" 
— Katherine  paused — "and  as  it  should  be.  But  I  must  needs 
run  out  and  cry  to  you.  In  this  we  are  like  links  of  an  endless 
chain.  \\'hat  is  the  next  link,  Julius  ?  To  whom  will  you  cry  in 
your  turn  ?  " 

"  The  chain  is  not  endless,"  he  replied.  "  The  last  link  of  it  is 
riveted  to  the  steps  of  the  throne  of  God.  I  will  make  my  cry 
there — my  threefold  cry — for  you,  for  Richard,  and  for  myself, 
Katherine." 

Lady  Calmady  had  reached  the  arched  side-door  leading  from 
the  terrace  into  the  house.  She  paused,  with  her  hand  on  the 
latch. 

"  Your  God  and  I  quarrelled  nearly  four-and-twenty  years 
ago — not  when  Richard,  my  joy,  died,  but  when  Richard,  my 
sorrow,  was  born,"  she  said.  "  I  own  I  see  no  way,  short  of 
miracle,  of  that  quarrel  being  made  up." 

"Then  a  miracle  will  be  worked,"  he  answered. 

"  Ah  !  you  forget  I  grow  old,"  Katherine  retorted,  smiling  ; 
"  so  that  for  miracles  the  time  is  at  once  too  long  and  too  short." 


CHAPTER  V 

TELLING    HOW    QUEICX    ^fAIlY's    CRYSTAL    BALL    CAME    TO 
FALL    OX    THE    GALIJillY    FLOOR 

THIS  world  is  unquestionably  a  vastly  stimulating  and  enter- 
taining place  if  you  take  it  aright — namely  if  you  recognise 
that  it  is  the  creation  of  a  profound  humorist,  is  designed  for 
wholly  practical  and  personal  uses,  and  proceed  to  adapt  your 
conduct  to  that  knowledge  in  all  light-heartedness  and  good  faith. 
Thus,  though  in  less  trenchant  phrase  since  she  was  still  happily 
very  young,  meditated  Madame  de  Vallorl)es,  while  standing  in 
the  pensive  Octrjber  sunshine  upon  the  wide  fliglit  of  steps  which 
leads  down  from  the  main  entrance  of  I'.rockhurst  House.  Tall, 
stone  f)innaclcs  a]tt;rnating  with  seatid  griffins— long  of  tail,  fierce 
of  beak  and  sharp  of  claw — fill  in  each  of  the  many  angles  of  the 
descending  stone  balustrade  on  either  hand.  Behind  her,  the 
florid,  though  rectangular,  decoration  of  the  house-front  ranged 


196  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

up,  storey  above  storey,  in  arcade  and  pilaster,  heavily-muUioned 
window,  carven  placjue  and  string  course,  to  pairs  of  matching 
pinnacles  and  griffins  —  these  last  rampant,  supporting  the 
Calmady  shield  and  coat -of- arms — the  quaint  forms  of  which 
break  the  long  line  of  the  pierced,  stone  parapet  in  the  centre  of 
the  fagade,  and  rise  above  the  rusty  red  of  the  low-pitched  roofs, 
until  the  spires  of  the  one  and  crested  heads  of  the  other  are 
outlined  against  the  sky.  About  her  feet  the  pea-fowl  stepped  in 
mincing  and  self-conscious  elegance — the  cocks  with  rustUngs  of 
heavy-trailing  quills,  the  hens  and  half-grown  chicks  with  squeak- 
ings  and  whifflings — subdued,  conversational— accompanied  by 
the  dry  tap  of  many  bills  picking  up  the  glossy  grains  of  Indian- 
corn  which  she  let  dribble  slowly  down  upon  the  shallow  steps 
from  between  her  pretty  fingers.  She  had  huddled  a  soft  sable 
tippet  about  her  throat  and  shoulders.  The  skirt  of  her  indigo- 
coloured,  poplin  dress,  turning  upon  the  step  immediately  above 
that  on  which  she  stood,  showed  some  inches  of  rose-scarlet, 
silken  frill  lining  the  hem  of  it. 

Helen  de  Vallorbes  had  a  lively  consciousness  of  her  sur- 
roundings. She  enjoyed  every  detail  of  them.  Enjoyed  the 
gentle,  south-westerly  wind  which  touched  her  face  and  stirred 
her  bright  hair,  enjoyed  the  plaintive,  autumn  song  of  a  robin 
perched  on  a  rose-grown  wall,  enjoyed  the  impotent  ferocity  of 
the  guardian  griffins,  enjoyed  the  small  sounds  made  by  the 
feeding  pea-fowl,  the  modest  quaker  greys  and  the  imperial 
splendours  of  their  plumage.  She  enjoyed  the  turn  of  her  own 
wrist,  its  gold  cliain-bracelet  and  the  handsome  lace  falling  away 
from  and  displaying  it,  as  she  held  out  the  handfuls  of  corn. 
She  enjoyed  even  that  space  of  rose  -  scarlet  declaring  itself 
between  the  dull  blue  of  her  dress  and  the  grey,  weathered 
surface  of  the  stone. 

But  all  these  formed  only  the  accompaniment,  the  ground- 
tone,  to  more  reasoned,  more  vital,  enjoyments.  Before  her, 
beyond  the  carriage  sweep,  lay  the  square  lawn  enclosed  by  red 
walls  and  by  octagonal,  pepper-pot  summer-houses,  whereon — 
unwillingly,  yet  in  obedience  to  the  wild  justice  of  revenge — 
Roger  Ormiston  had  shot  the  Clown,  half-brother  to  Touchstone, 
racehorse  of  mournful  memory.  As  a  child  Helen  had  heard 
that  story.  Now  her  somewhat  light,  blue -grey  eyes,  their 
beautiful  lids  raised  wide  for  once,  looked  out  curiously  upon 
the  space  of  dew-powdered  turf;  while  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
— a  mouth  a  trifle  thin  lipped,  yet  soft  and  dangerously  sweet  for 
kissing — turned  upward  in  a  reflective  smile.  She,  too,  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  angry,  to  the  point  of  revenge;  had  indeed 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  197 

come  to  Brockhurst  not  without  purpose  of  that  last  tucked  away 
in  some  naughty  convolution  of  her  active  brain.  But  Brockhurst 
and  its  inhabitants  had  proved  altogether  more  interesting  than 
she  had  anticipated.  This  was  the  fourth  day  of  her  visit,  and 
each  day  had  proved  more  to  her  taste  than  the  preceding  one. 
So  she  concluded  this  matter  of  revenge  might  very  well  stand 
over  for  the  moment,  possibly  stand  over  altogether.  The  pre- 
sent was  too  excellent,  of  its  kind,  to  risk  spoiling.  Helen  de 
Vallorbes  valued  the  purple  and  fine  linen  of  a  high  civilisation ; 
nor  did  she  disdain,  within  graceful  hmits,  to  fare  sumptuously 
every  day.  She  valued  all  that  is  beautiful  and  costly  in  art,  of 
high  merit  and  distinction  in  literature.  Her  taste  was  sure  and 
just,  if  a  little  more  disposed  towards  that  which  is  sensuous  than 
towards  that  which  is  spiritual.  And  in  all  its  many  forms 
she  appreciated  luxury,  even  entertaining  a  kindness  for  that 
necessary  handmaid  of  luxury — waste.  Appreciated  these  the 
more  ardently,  that,  with  birth-pangs  at  the  beginning  of  each 
human  life,  death-pangs  and  the  corruption  of  the  inevitable 
grave  at  the  close  of  each,  all  this  lapping,  meanwhile,  of  the 
doomed  flesh  in  exaggerations  of  ease  and  splendour  seemed  to 
her  among  the  very  finest  ironies  of  the  great  comedy  of  exist- 
ence. It  heightened,  it  accentuated  the  drama.  And  among 
the  many  good  things  of  life,  drama,  come  how  and  where  and 
when  it  might,  seemed  to  her  supremely  the  best.  She  desired 
it  as  a  lover  his  mistress.  To  detect  it,  to  observe  it,  gave  her 
the  keenest  pleasure.  To  take  a  leading  part  in  and  shape  it  to 
the  turn  of  her  own  heart,  her  own  purpose,  her  own  wit,  was,  so 
far,  her  ruling  passion. 

And  of  potential  drama,  of  the  raw  material  of  it,  as  the  days 
passed,  she  found  increasingly  generous  store  at  Brockhurst.  It 
invaded  and  held  her  imagination,  as  the  initial  conception  of  his 
poem  will  that  of  the  poet,  or  of  his  picture  that  of  the  painter. 
She  brooded  over  it,  increasingly  convinced  tliat  it  might  be  a 
masterpiece.  For  the  drama — as  she  apprehended  it — contained 
not  only  elements  of  virility  and  strength,  but  an  element,  and 
that  a  persistent  one,  of  the  grotesciue.  This  put  the  gilded 
dome  to  her  silent,  and  perhaps  slightly  uiis(rui)uIous,  satisfac- 
tion. How  could  it  be  otherwise,  since  tlie  presence  of  the 
grotesque  is,  after  all,  the  main  justification  of  the  theory  on 
which  her  [)hilosophy  of  life  was  based — namely  the  belief  that 
above  all  elocjuence  of  human  speech,  behind  all  enthusiasm  of 
human  action  or  emotion,  the  car  which  hears  aright  can  always 
detect  the  echo  of  eternal  laughter?  And  this  grim  echo  did 
not  affect  the  charming  young  lady  to  sadness  as  yet.     Still  less 


ipS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

did  it  make  her  mad,  as  the  mere  suspicion  of  it  has  made  so 
many,  and  those  by  no  means  unworthy  or  illiterate  persons. 
For  the  laugh,  so  far,  had  appeared  to  be  on  her  side,  never  at 
her  expense — which  makes  a  difference.  And  the  chambers  of 
her  House  of  Life  were  too  crowded  by  health  and  agreeable 
sensations,  mental  activities  and  sparkling  audacities  to  leave  any 
one  of  them  vacant  for  reception,  more  than  momentary,  of  that 
thrice-blessed  guest,  pity. 

And  so  it  followed  that,  as  she  fed  the  mincing  pea-fowl, 
Madame  de  Vallorbes'  smile  changed  in  character  from  re- 
flection to  impatience.  A  certain  heat  running  through  her, 
she  set  her  pretty  teeth  and  fell  to  pelting  the  pea-hens  and 
chicks  mischievously,  breaking  up  all  their  aristocratic  reserve 
and  making  them  jump  and  squeak  to  some  purpose.  For  this 
precious,  this  very  masterpiece  of  a  drama  was  not  only  here 
potentially,  but  actually.  It  was  alive.  She  had  felt  it  move 
under  her  hand — or  under  her  heart,  which  was  it  ? — yesterday 
evening.  Again  this  morning,  just  now,  she  had  noted  signs  of 
its  vitality,  wholly  convincing  to  one  skilled  in  such  matters. 
Impatience,  then,  became  very  excusable. 

"For  my  time  is  short  and  the  action  disengages  itself  so 
deplorably  slowly  ! "  she  exclaimed. — "  Pah  !  you  greedy,  con- 
ceited birds,  which  do  you  hold  dearest  after  all,  the  filling  of 
your  little  stomachs,  or  the  supporting  of  your  little  dignities  ? 
Be  advised  by  a  higher  intelligence.  Revenge  yourselves  on  the 
grains  that  hit  and  sting  you  by  gobbling  them  up.  It  is  a 
venerable  custom  that  of  feasting  upon  one's  enemies.  And 
has  been  practised,  in  various  forms,  both  by  nations  and 
individuals.  There,  I  give  you  another  chance  of  displaying 
wisdom  —  there  —  there  !  —  La  !  la  !  what  an  absurd  com- 
motion !  You  little  idiots,  don't  flutter.  Agitation  is  a  waste  of 
energy,  and  advances  nothing.  I  declare  peace.  I  want  to 
consider." 

And  so,  letting  the  remaining  handfuls  of  corn  dribble  down 
very  slo>vly,  while  the  sunshine  grew  warmer  and  the  shadows  of 
the  guardian  griffins  more  distinct  upon  the  lichen-encrusted 
stones,  Helen  de  Vallorbes  sank  back  into  meditation. — Yes, 
unquestionably  the  drama  was  alive.  But  it  seemed  so  difficult 
to  bring  it  to  the  birth.  And  she  wanted,  very  badly,  to  hear  its 
first  half-articulate  cries  and  watch  its  first  staggering  footsteps. 
All  that  is  so  entertaining,  you  yourself  safely  grown-up,  standing 
very  firm  on  your  feet,  looking  down  ! — And  it  would  be  a  lusty 
child,  this  drama,  very  soon  reaching  man's  estate  and  man's 
inspiring  violence  of  action,  striking  out  like  some  blind,  giant 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  199 

Samson,  blundering  headlong  in  its  unseeing,  uncalculating 
strength. — Helen  laid  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  threw 
back  her  head,  while  her  throat  bubbled  with  suppressed 
laughter.  Ah  !  it  promised  to  be  a  drama  of  ten  thousand,  if 
she  knew  her  power,  and  knew  her  world — and  she  possessed 
considerable  confidence  in  her  knowledge  of  both.  Only,  how 
on  earth  to  set  the  crystal  free  of  the  matrix,  how  to  engage 
battle,  how  to  get  this  thing  fairly  and  squarely  born?  For, 
as  she  acknowledged,  in  the  flotation  of  all  such  merry 
schemes  as  her  present  one,  chance  encounters,  interludes,  neatly 
planned  evasions  and  resultant  pursuits,  play  so  large  and  im- 
portant a  part.  But  at  Brockhurst  this  whole  chapter  of 
accidents  was  barred,  and  received  rules  of  strategy  almost 
annihilated,  by  the  fact  of  Richard  Calmady's  infirmity  and  the 
hard-and-fast  order  of  domestic  procedure,  the  elaborate  system 
of  etiquette,  which  that  infirmity  had  gradually  produced.  At 
Brockhurst  there  were  no  haphazard  exits  and  entrances.  These 
were  either  hopelessly  ofificial  and  public,  or  guarded  to  an 
equally  hopeless  point  of  secrecy.  A  contingent  of  tall,  civil 
men-servants  was  always  on  duty.  Richard  was  invariably  in  his 
place  at  table  when  the  rest  of  the  company  came  down.  The 
ladies  took  their  after-dinner  coffee  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
joined  the  gentlemen  in  the  Chapel-Room,  library,  or  gallery,  as 
the  case  might  be.  If  they  rode,  Richard  was  at  the  door  ready 
mounted,  along  with  the  grooms  and  led-horses.  If  they  drove, 
he  was  already  seated  in  the  carriage. 

"And  how,  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense,"  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  exclaimed,  stamping  her  foot,  and  thereby  throwing  the 
now  thoroughly  nervous  pea-fowl  into  renewed  agitation,  "are 
you  to  establish  any  relation  worth  mentioning  with  a  man  who 
is  perpetually  being  carried  in  procession  like  a  Hindu  idol? 
My  good  birds,  one's  never  alone  with  him — whether  by 
design  and  arrangement,  I  know  not.  But,  so  far,  never,  never, 
picture  that !  And  yet,  don't  tell  me,  matchless  mixture  of  pride 
and  innocence  though  he  is,  he  wouldn't  like  it ! " 

However,  she  checked  her  irritation  by  contemplation  of 
yesterday. — Ah !  that  had  been  very  prettily  done  assuredly. 
For  riding  in  the  forenoon  along  the  road  skirting  the  palings  of 
the  inner  park,  while  they  walked  their  horses  over  the  soft, 
brown  bed  of  fallen  fir-needles, — she,  her  father,  and  Dick, — the 
conversation  dealt  with  certain  first  editions  and  their  bindings, 
certain  treasures,  unicjue  in  historic  worth,  locked  in  the  glass 
tables  and  fin<;  I'"lorcntinc  and  pH'tra  dura  cabinets  of  the  Long 
Gallery.     Mr.  Orniislon  was  a  connoisseur  and  talked  well.     And 


20O  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Helen  had  sufificient  acquaintance  with  such  matters  both  to 
appreciate,  and  to  add  telling  words  to  the  talk. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  cannot  go  without  seeing  those  delectable  things, 
Richard,"  she  said.  "Would  it  be  giving  you  altogether  too 
much  trouble  to  have  them  out  for  me  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course  not.  You  shall  see  them  whenever  you 
like,"  he  answered.  "Julius  knows  all  about  them.  He'll  be 
only  too  delighted  to  act  showman." 

Just  here  the  road  narrowed  a  little,  and  Mr.  Ormiston  let 
his  horse  drop  a  few  lengths  behind,  so  that  she,  Helen,  and  her 
cousin  rode  forward  side  by  side.  The  tones  of  the  low  sky,  of 
the  ranks  of  firs  and  stretches  of  heather  formed  a  rich,  though 
sombre,  harmony  of  colour.  Scents,  pungent  and  singularly  ex- 
hilarating, were  given  off  by  the  damp  mosses  and  the  peaty 
moorland  soil.  The  freedom  of  the  forest,  the  feeling  of  the 
noble  horse  under  her,  stirred  Helen  as  with  the  excitement  of 
a  mighty  hunting,  a  positively  royal  sport.  While  the  close 
presence  of  the  young  man  riding  beside  her  sharpened  the 
edge  of  that  excitement  to  a  perfect  keenness  of  pleasure. 

"  Ah,  how  glorious  it  all  is  ! "  she  cried.  "  How  glad  I  am  that 
you  asked  me  to  come  here." 

And  she  turned  to  Richard,  looking  at  him  as,  since  the  first 
day  of  their  meeting,  she  had  not,  somehow,  quite  ventured  to 
look. 

"  But,  oh  !  dear  me  !  please,"  she  went  on,  "  I  know  Mr. 
March  is  an  angel,  a  saint — but — but — 7nea  culpa,  mea  maxima 
culpa,  I  don't  want  him  to  show  me  those  special  treasures  of 
yours.  He'll  take  the  life  out  of  them.  I  know  it.  And  make 
them  seem  like  things  read  of  merely  in  a  learned  book.  Be 
very  charming  to  me,  Richard.  Waste  half  an  hour  upon  me. 
Show  me  those  moving  relics  yourself." 

As  she  spoke,  momentary  suspicion  rose  in  Dickie's  eyes. 
But  she  gazed  back  unflinchingly,  with  the  uttermost  frankness, 
so  that  suspicion  died,  giving  place  to  the  shy,  yet  triumphant, 
gladness  of  youth  which  seeks  and  finds  youth. 

"  Do,  Richard,  pray  do,"  she  repeated. 

The  young  man  had  averted  his  face  rather  sharply,  and  both 
horses,  somehow,  broke  into  a  hand  gallop. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  arrange  it.  This  evening, 
about  six,  after  tea?     Will  that  suit  you ?     I'll  send  you  word." 

Then  the  road  had  widened,  permitting  Mr.  Ormiston  to 
draw  up  to  them  again.  The  remainder  of  the  ride  had  been  a 
little  silent. 

Yes,  all  that  had  been  prettily  done.     Nor  had  the  piece  that 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  201 

followed  proved  unworthy  of  the  prelude.  She  ran  over  the 
scene  in  her  mind  now,  as  she  stood  among  the  pecketing  pea- 
fowl, and  it  caused  her  both  mirth  and  delightful  little  heats,  in 
which  the  heart  has  a  word  to  say. — Madame  de  Vallorbes  was 
ravished  to  feel  her  heart,  just  now  and  again.  For,  contra- 
dictory as  it  may  seem,  no  game  is  perfect  that  has  not  moments 
of  seriousness. — She  recalled  the  aspect  of  the  Long  Gallery,  as 
one  of  those  civil,  ever-present  men-servants  had  opened  the 
door  for  her,  and  she  waited  a  moment  on  the  threshold.  The 
true  artist  is  never  in  a  hurry.  The  breadth  of  the  great  room 
immediately  before  her  showed  very  bright  with  candle-light  and 
lamp-light.  But  that  died  away,  through  gradations  of  augment- 
ing obscurity,  until  the  extreme  end,  towards  the  western  bay, 
melted  out  into  complete  darkness.  This  produced  an  effect  of 
almost  limitless  length  which  moved  her  to  a  childish,  and  at 
first  pleasing,  fancy  of  vague  danger — an  effect  heightened  by 
the  ranges  of  curious  and  costly  objects  standing  against,  or 
decorating,  the  walls  in  a  perspective  of  deepening  gloom. 
Turquoise-coloured,  satin  curtains,  faded  to  intimate  accord  with 
the  silvered  surface  of  the  panelling,  were  drawn  across  the 
wide  windows.  They  reached  to  the  lower  edge  of  the  stone- 
work merely,  leaving  blottings  of  impenetrable  shadow  below. 
\\'hile,  as  culmination  of  interest,  as  living  centre  to  this  rich  and 
varied  setting,  was  the  figure  of  Richard  Calmady — seen,  as  his 
custom  was,  only  to  the  waist — seated  in  a  high-backed  chair 
drawn  close  against  an  antique,  oak  table,  upon  which  a  small 
pietra  dura  cabinet  had  been  placed.  The  doors  of  the  cabinet 
stood  open,  displaying  slender  columns  of  jasper  and  porphyry, 
and  little  drawers  encrusted  with  raised  work  in  marble  and 
precious  stones.  The  young  man  sat  stiffly  upright,  as  one  who 
listens,  expectant.  His  expression  was  almost  painfully  serious. 
In  one  hand  he  held  a  string  of  pearls,  attached  to  which,  and 
enclosed  by  intersecting  hoops  of  gold,  was  a  crystal  ball  that 
shone  with  the  mild  effulgence  of  a  mimic  moon.  And  the 
great  room  was  so  very  quiet,  that  Helen,  in  her  pause  upon 
the  threshold,  had  remarked  the  sound  of  raindrops  tapping 
upon  the  many  window  -  i)anes  as  with  impatiently  nervous 
fingers. 

And  this  bred  in  her  a  corresponding  nervousness — sensation 
to  her,  heretofore,  almost  unknown,  'i'hc  darkness  yonder 
began  to  provoke  a  disagreeable  impression,  queerly  challenging 
both  her  eyesight  and  her  courage.  Old  convent  teachings, 
regarding  the  I'rince  of  Darkness  and  his  emissaries,  returned 
upon    her.     What    if   diabolic    shapes    lurked    there,    ready    to 


202  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

become  stealthily  emergent  ?  She  had  scoffed  at  such  archaic 
fancies  in  the  convent,  yet,  in  lonely  hours,  had  suffered  panic 
fear  of  them,  as  will  the  hardiest  sceptic.  A  certain  little  scar, 
moreover,  carefully  hidden  under  the  soft  hair  arranged  low  on 
her  right  temple,  smarted  and  pricked.  In  short,  her  habitual 
self-confidence  suffered  partial  eclipse.  She  was  visited  by  the 
disintegrating  suspicion,  for  once,  that  the  eternal  laughter 
might,  possibly,  be  at  her  expense,  rather  than  on  her  side. 

But  she  conquered  such  suspicion  as  contemptible,  and  cast 
out  the  passing  weakness. — The  bare  memory  of  it  angered  her 
now,  causing  her  to  fire  a  volley  of  yellow  corn  at  a  lordly 
peacock,  which  sent  him  scuttling  down  the  steps  on  to  the 
gravel  in  most  plebeian  haste.  Yes,  she  had  speedily  cast  out 
her  weakness,  thank  Heaven  !  What  was  all  the  pother  about 
after  all?  This  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  played  merry 
games  with  the  affairs  and  affections  of  men.  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  smiled  to  herself,  recalling  certain  episodes,  and 
shook  her  charming  shoulders  gleefully,  as  she  looked  out  into 
the  sunny  morning.  And  then,  was  there  not  ample  excuse? 
This  man  moved  her  more  than  most — more  than  any.  She 
swore  he  did.  Her  attitude  towards  him  was  something  new, 
something  quite  different,  thereby  justifying  her  campaign.  And 
therefore,  all  the  bolder  for  her  brief  self-distrust  and  hesitation, 
she  had  swept  across  the  great  room,  light  of  foot,  and  almost 
impertinently  graceful  of  carriage. 

"  Here  you  are  at  last ! "  Dickie  had  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh 
as  of  relief.  "I  shan't  want  anything  more,  Powell.  You  can 
come  back  when  the  dressing-bell  rings." — Then,  as  the  valet 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  he  continued  rapidly  : — "  Not  that 
I  propose  to  victimise  you  till  then,  Helen.  You  mustn't  stay  a 
moment  longer  than  you  like.  I  confess  I'm  awfully  fond  of  this 
room.  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  think  how  much  time  I  waste 
in  it.  Doing  what?  Oh,  well,  just  dreaming!  You  see  it 
contains  samples  of  the  doings  of  all  my  father's  people,  and 
I  return  to  primitive  faiths  here  and  perform  acts  of  ancestor 
worship." 

"  Ah  !  I  like  that ! "  Helen  said.  And  she  did.  Picture 
this  man,  long  of  arm,  unnaturally  low  of  stature,  and  astonish- 
ingly— yes,  quite  astonishingly — good-looking,  moving  about 
among  these  books  and  pictures,  these  trophies  of  war  and  of 
sport,  these  oriental  jars,  tall  almost  as  himself,  and  all  the  other 
strange  furnishings  from  out  distant  years  and  distant  lands ! 
Picture  him  emerging  from  that  wall  of  soft  darkness  yonder, 
for  instance !     Helen's   eyes   danced   under  their  arched  and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  203 

drooping  lids,  and  she  registered  the  fact  that,  though  still 
frightened,  her  fright  had  changed  in  character.  It  was  grateful 
to  her  palate.  She  relished  it  as  the  bouquet  of  a  wine  of  finest 
quality.     Meanwhile  her  companion  talked  on. 

"  The  ancestor  worship  ?  Oh  yes  !  I  daresay  you  might 
like  it  for  a  change.  Getting  it  as  I  do,  as  habitual  diet,  it  is 
not  remarkably  stimulating.  The  natural  man  prefers  to  find 
occasion  for  worshipping  himself  rather  than  his  ancestors,  after 
all,  you  know.  But  a  little  turn  of  it  will  serve  to  fill  in  a  gap 
and  lessen  the  monotony  of  your  visit.  I  am  afraid  you  must  be 
a  good  deal  bored,  Helen.  It  must  seem  rather  terribly  hum- 
drum here  after  Paris  and  Naples,  and — well — most  places,  at  that 
rate,  as  you  know  them." 

Richard  shifted  his  position.  And  the  crystal  moon  encom- 
passed by  golden  bands,  crossing  and  intersecting  one  another 
like  those  of  a  sidereal  sphere,  gleamed  as  with  an  inward  and 
unearthly  light,  swinging  slowly  upon  the  movement  of  his 
hand. 

"  You  must  feel  here  as  though  the  clock  had  been  put 
back  two  or  three  centuries.  I  know  we  move  slowly,  and 
conduct  ourselves  with  tedious  deliberation.  And  so,  you 
understand,  you  mustn't  let  me  keep  you.  Just  look  at  what 
you  like  of  these  odds  and  ends,  and  then  depart  without  scruple. 
It's  rather  a  fraud,  in  any  case,  my  showing  them  to  you.  Julius 
March,  as  I  told  you,  is  much  better  qualified  to." 

"Julius  March,  Julius  March  ! "  Madame  de  Vallorbes  broke 
in.  "  Do,  I  beseech  you,  dear  cousin  Richard,  leave  him  to  the 
pious  retirement  of  his  study.  Is  he  not  middle-aged,  and  a 
priest  into  the  bargain  ?" 

"  Unquestionably,"  Dickie  said.  "  But,  pardon  me,  I  don't 
quite  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it," 

Thereupon  Madame  de  Vallorbes  made  a  very  naughty,  little 
grimace  and  drummed  with  her  finger-tips  upon  the  table. 

"La!  la!"  she  cried,  "you're  no  better  than  all  the  rest. 
Commend  me  to  a  clever  man  for  incapacity  to  apprehend  what 
is  patent  to  the  intelligence  of  the  most  ordinary  woman.  Look 
about  you." — Helen  sketched  in  their  surroundings  with  a  quick 
descriptive  gesture.  "Observe  the  lights  and  shadows.  'I'he 
ghostly  wavings  of  those  pale  curtains.  Smell  the  pot-pourri 
and  spices.  Tiiink  of  the  ancestor  worship.  Listen  to  the 
lamenting  wind  and  rain.  See  the  mysterious  treasure  you  hold 
in  your  hand.  And  then  ask  me  what  middle-age  and  the 
clerical  profession  have  to  do  with  all  this  !  Why,  nothing,  just 
precisely  nothing,  nothing  in  the  whole  world.     Tlial's  tlic  point 


204  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  my  argument,  'i'hey'd  ruin  the  sentiment,  blight  the  romance, 
hopelessly  blight  it — for  me  at  least." 

The  conversation  was  slightly  embarrassed,  both  Helen  and 
Richard  talking  at  length,  yet  at  random.  But  she  knew  that  it 
was  thus,  and  not  otherwise,  that  it  behoved  them  to  talk.  For 
that  which  they  said  mattered  not  in  the  least.  The  thing  said 
served  as  a  veil,  as  a  cloak,  merely,  wherewith  to  disguise  those 
much  greater  things  which,  perforce,  remained  unsaid. — To 
cover  his  and  her  lively  consciousness  of  their  present  isolation, 
desired  these  many  days  and  now  obtained.  To  conceal  the 
swift,  silent  approaches  of  spirit  to  spirit,  so  full  of  inquiry  and 
self-revelation,  fugitive  reserves  and  fugitive  distrusts.  To  hide, 
as  far  as  might  be,  the  existence  of  the  hungry,  all-compelling 
joie  de  vivre  which  is  begotten  whensoever  youth  thus  seeks  and 
finds  youth. — These  unspoken  and,  as  yet,  unspeakable  things 
were  alone  of  real  moment,  making  eyes  lustrous  and  lips  quick 
with  tremulous,  uncalled-for  smiles  irrespective  of  the  purport  of 
their  speech. 

"  Ah  !  but  that's  rather  rough  on  poor  dear  Julius,  you  know," 
Dickie  said.     "  I  suppose  you  wanted  to  learn  all" — 

"  Learn  ?  "  she  interrupted.  "  I  wanted  to  feel.  Don't  you 
know  there  is  only  one  way  any  woman  worth  the  name  ever 
really  learns — through  her  emotions?  Only  the  living  feel. 
Such  men  as  he,  if  they  are  sincere,  are  already  dead.  He 
would  have  made  feeling  impossible." 

A  perceptible  hush  descended  upon  the  room,  Richard 
Calmady's  hand  usually  was  steady  enough,  but,  in  the  silence, 
the  pearls  chattered  against  the  table.  He  went  rather  pale  and 
his  face  hardened. 

"And  are  you  getting  anything  of  that  which  you  wanted, 
Helen?"  he  asked.  "For  sometimes  in  the  last  few  days — 
since  you  have  been  here — I — I  have  wondered  if  perhaps  we 
were  not  all  like  that — all  dead  " — 

"You  mean  do  I  get  emotion,  am  I  feeling?"  she  said. 
"  Rest  contented.  Much  is  happening.  Indeed  I  have  doubted, 
during  the  last  few  days,  since  I  have  been  here,  whether  I  have 
ever  known  what  it  is  to  feel  actually  and  seriously  before." 

She  sat  down  at  right  angles  to  him,  resting  her  elbows  upon 
the  table,  her  chin  upon  her  folded  hands,  leaning  a  little 
towards  him.  One  of  those  pleasant  heats  swept  over  her, 
flushing  her  delicate  skin,  lending  a  certain  effulgence  to  her 
beauty.  The  scent  of  roses  long  faded  hung  in  the  air.  But 
here  was  a  rose  sweeter  far  than  they.  No  white  rose  of  paradise, 
it  must  be  confessed.     Rather,  like  her  immortal  namesake,  that 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  205 

classic  Helen,  was  she  rosa  mundi,  glowing  with  warmth  and 
colour,  rose-red  rose  altogether  of  this  dear,  naughty,  lower 
world  ! 

"Richard,"  she  said  impulsively,  "why  don't  you  under- 
stand ?  Why  do  you  underrate  your  own  power  ?  Don't  you 
know  that  you  are  quite  the  most  moving,  the  most  attractive — 
well — cousin,  a  woman  ever  had  ?  " 

She  looked  closely  at  him,  her  lips  a  little  parted,  her  head 
thrown  back. 

"  Life  is  sweet,  dear  cousin.  Reckon  with  yourself  and  with 
it,  and  live — live." — Then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  held  up 
the  crystal  between  her  face  and  his.  "There,"  she  went  on, 
"tell  me  about  this.  I  become  indiscreet,  thanks  I  suppose 
to  your  Brockhurst  habit  of  putting  back  the  clock,  and  speak 
with  truly  Elizabethan  frankness.  It  belongs  to  semi-barbaric 
ages,  doesn't  it,  thus,  to  tell  the  true  truth  ?  Show  me  this.  It 
seems  rather  fascinating." 

And  Richard  obeyed  mechanically,  pointing  out  to  her  the 
signs  of  the  Zodiac,  those  of  the  plantts,  and  other  figures  of 
occult  significance  engraved  on  the  encircling,  golden  bands. 
Showed  her  how  those  same  bands,  turning  on  a  pivot,  formed  a; 
golden  cradle,  in  which  the  crystal  sphere  reposed.  He  lifted 
it  out  from  that  cradle,  moreover,  and  laid  it  in  the  softer  cradle 
of  her  palm.  And  of  necessity,  in  the  doing  of  all  this,  their 
heads — his  and  hers — were  very  near  together,  and  their  bands 
met.  But  they  were  very  solemn  all  the  while,  solemn,  eager, 
busy,  as  two  babies  revealing  to  each  other  the  mysteries  of  a 
newly  acquired  toy.  And  it  seemed  to  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
that  all  this  was  as  pretty  a  bit  of  business  as  ever  served  to  help 
forward  such  gay  purposes  as  hers.  She  was  pleased  with 
herself  too — for  did  she  not  feel  very  gentle,  very  sincere,  really 
very  innocent  and  good  ? 

"  No,  hold  it  so,"  Richard  said,  rounding  her  fingers  carefully^ 
that  the  tips  of  them  might  alone  touch  the  surface  of  the 
crystal.  "  Now  gaze  into  the  heart  of  it  steadily,  fixing  your 
will  to  see.  Pictures  will  come  [)resently,  dimly  at  first,  as  in  a 
mist.  Then  the  mist  will  lift  and  you  will  read  your  own  fortune 
and — perhaps — some  other  person's  fate." 

"  Have  you  ever  read  yours?" 

"Oh!  mine's  of  a  sort  that  needs  no  crystal  to  reveal  it," 
he  answered,  with  a  queer  drop  in  his  voice.  "  It's  written  in 
rather  indecently  big  letters  and  plain  type.     Always  has  been." 

Helen  glanced  at  him.  His  words  whipped  up  her  sense  of 
drama,  fed  her  excitement.     But  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  the 


206  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

crystal  again,  and  the  hush  descended  once  more,  disturbed  only 
by  that  nervous  tapping  of  rain. 

"I  see  nothing, — nothing,"  she  said  presently.  "And  there 
is  much  I  would  give  very  much  to  see." 

"  You  must  gaze  with  a  simple  intention." — The  young  man's 
voice  came  curiously  hoarse  and  broken.  "  Purify  your  mind 
of  all  desire." 

Helen  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"Alas  !  if  those  are  the  conditions  of  revelation  my  chances 
of  seeing  are  extremely  limited.  To  purify  one's  mind  of  all 
desire  is  to  commit  emotional  suicide.  Of  course  I  desire,  all 
the  while  I  desire.  And  equally,  of  course,  you  desire.  Every 
one  who  is  human  and  in  their  sober  senses  must  do  that. 
Absence  of  desire  means  idiotcy,  or  " — 

"Or  what?" 

For  an  instant  she  looked  up  at  him,  a  very  devil  of  dainty 
malice  in  her  expression,  in  the  shrug  of  her  shoulders  too, 
beneath  their  fine  laces  and  the  affected  sobriety  of  that  same 
dull-blue,  poplin  gown. 

"  Or  priestly,  saintly  middle-age — from  which  may  Heaven  in 
its  mercy  ever  deliver  us,"  she  said. 

Richard  shifted  his  position  a  little,  gathering  himself  back 
from  her  so  near  neighbourhood — a  fact  of  which  the  young 
lady  was  not  unaware. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  whether  I  echo  your  prayer,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  I  doubt  whether  that  attitude,  or  one  approximate  to 
it,  is  not  the  safest  and  best  for  some  of  us." 

"  Safest,  no  doubt." — Madame  de  Vallorbes'  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  crystal  sphere  again.  "  As  it  is  safer  to  decline  a  duel, 
than  go  out  and  meet  your  man.  Best?  On  that  point  you 
must  permit  me  to  hold  my  own  opinion.  The  word  *  best'  has 
many  readings  according  to  the  connection  in  which  it  is 
employed.     Personally  I  should  always  fight." 

"  Whatever  the  odds  ?  " 

"Whatever  the  odds." — And  almost  immediately  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  uttered  a  little  cry,  curiously  at  variance  with  her 
l^old  words.  "  Something  is  moving  inside  the  crystal,  something 
is  coming.  I  don't  half  like  it,  Richard.  Perhaps  we  are 
tempting  Providence.  Yes,  it  moves,  it  moves,  like  mist  rising 
off  a  river.  It  is  poisonous.  Some  woman  has  looked  into  this 
before— a  woman  of  my  temperament — and  read  an  evil  fortune. 
I  know  it.  Tell  me,  quick,  how  did  the  crystal  come  here,  to 
whom  did  it  belong?" 

"To  Mary  Stuart — Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,"  Dickie  said. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCl  207 

"Ah!  unhappy  woman,  ill-omened  woman!  You  should 
have  told  me  that  before  and  I  would  never  have  looked. 
Here  take  it,  take  it.  Lock  it  up,  hide  it.  Let  no  woman  ever 
look  in  it  again  !  " 

As  she  spoke  Helen  crossed  herself  hastily,  pushing  the 
magic  ball  towards  him.  But,  as  though  endowed  with  Hfe 
and  volition  of  its  own — or  was  it  merely  that  Dick's  hand  was 
even  yet  not  quite  of  the  steadiest? — it  evaded  his  grasp,  fell 
off  the  table  edge  and  rolled,  gleaming  moonlike,  far  across 
the  floor,  away  behind  the  pedestal  of  the  bronze  Pompeian 
Antinous,  into  the  dusky  shadow  of  those  ghostly  -  waving, 
turquoise,  satin  curtains. 

With  a  sense  of  catastrophe  upon  her  Helen  had  sprung  to 
her  feet. — Even  now,  standing  in  the  peaceful  warmth  of  the 
autumn  sunshine,  among  the  feeding  pea-fowl,  the  remembrance 
of  it  caused  her  a  little  shiver.  For  at  sight  of  that  gleaming 
ball  hurrying  across  the  carpet,  all  the  nervousness,  the  distrust 
of  herself,  and  the  vague  spiritual  alarms,  which  had  beset  her 
on  first  entering  the  room,  returned  on  her  with  tenfold  force. 
The  superstitious  terrors  of  the  convent-bred  girl  mastered  the 
light-hearted  scepticism  of  the  woman  of  the  world,  and  regions 
of  sinister  possibility  seemed  disclosing  themselves  around 
her. 

"  Oh  !  how  horrible  !     AMiat  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  cried. 

And  Richard  answered  cheerily,  somewhat  astonished  at  her 
agitation,  trying  to  reassure  her. 

"  Mean  ?  Nothing,  except  that  I  was  abominably  awkward 
and  the  crystal  abominably  slippery.  What  does  it  matter? 
We  can  find  it  again  directly." 

Then,  self-forgetful  in  the  fulness  of  his  longing  to  pacify  her, 
Richard  had  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table,  intending  to 
go  in  search  of  the  vagrant  jewel.  But  the  chair  was  high,  and 
its  make  not  of  the  most  solid  sort ;  and  so  he  paused,  in- 
stinctively calculating  the  amount  of  support  it  could  be  trusted 
to  render  him  in  his  descent.  And  during  that  pause  Helen 
had  felt  her  heart  stand  still. — .She  set  her  little  teeth  now, 
recalling  it.  For  the  extent  of  his  deformity  was  fully  apparent 
for  once.  And,  apj)rchen(ling  that  which  he  projjoscd  to  do, 
she  was  smitten  by  immense  curiosity  to  realise  the  ultimate  of 
the  grotesque  in  respect  of  his  apj)earance  as  he  should  move, 
walk,  grope  in  the  dimness  over  there  after  the  lost  crystal. 
Hut  there  are  srjnic  indulgences  which  ran  be  bought  at  too 
high  a  price,  and  along  with  the  temjjlalion  to  gratify  lier 
curiosity  came  an  intensification  of  superstitious  alarm.     \Vhat  if 


2o8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

she  had  sinned,  and  trafficked  with  diabolic  agencies  in  trying  to 
read  the  future  ?  Payment  of  an  actively  disagreeable  character 
might  be  exacted  for  that,  and  would  not  such  payment  risk 
disastrous  augmentation  if  she  gratified  her  curiosity  thus 
further?  Helen  de  Vallorbes  became  quite  wonderfully  prudent 
and  humane. 

"No,  no,  don't  bother  about  it,  don't  move,  dear  Richard," 
she  cried.  "  Let  me  find  it,  please.  I  saw  exactly  the  direction 
in  which  it  went." 

And  to  enforce  her  speech,  and  keep  the  young  man  in 
his  place,  she  laid  her  hands  persuasively  upon  his  shoulders. 
This  brought  her  charming  face,  so  pure  in  outline,  set  in  its 
aureole  of  honey-coloured  hair,  very  near  to  his,  she  looking 
down,  he  up.  And  in  this  position  the  two  remained  longer 
than  was  absolutely  necessary,  silent,  quite  still,  while  the  air 
grew  thick  with  the  push  of  unspoken  and  as  yet  unspeakable 
matters,  and  Helen's  hands  resting  upon  his  shoulders  grew 
heavy,  as  the  seconds  passed,  with  languorous  weight. 

"  There  are  better  things  than  crystals  to  read  in,  after  all, 
Richard,"  she  said  at  last.  Then  she  lifted  her  hands  almost 
brusquely  and  stepped  back. — "All  the  same  it  is  stupid  I 
should  have  to  go  away,"  she  continued,  speaking  more  to 
herself  than  to  him.  "  I  am  happy  here.  And  when  I  am 
happy  it's  easy  to  be  good — and  I  like  to  be  good." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  passed  behind  the  bronze 
Pompeian  Antinous.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  in 
the  angle  of  the  bay,  against  the  wainscot,  Queen  Mary's 
magic  ball  glowed  softly  luminous.  Helen  could  have  believed 
that  it  watched  her.  She  hesitated  before  stooping  to  pick  it 
up  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  Richard  Calmady.  His  back 
was  towards  her,  his  chair  close  against  the  table  again.  He 
leaned  forward  on  his  elbows,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Something  in  the  bowed  head,  in  the  set  of  the  almost  crouch- 
ing figure  reassured  Madame  de  Vallorbes.  She  picked  up  the 
crystal  without  more  ado,  with,  indeed,  a  certain  flippancy  of 
gesture.  P'or  she  had  received  pleasing  assurance  that  she  had 
been  frightened  in  the  wrong  place,  and  that  the  eternal 
laughter  was  very  completely  on  her  side  after  all. 

And  just  then  a  bell  had  rung  in  some  distant  quarter  of  the 
great  house.  Powell,  incarnation  of  decent  punctualities,  had 
appeared.  Whereupon  the  temperature  fell  to  below  normal 
from  fever-heat.  Drama,  accentuations  of  sensibility,  in  short 
all  the  unspoken  and  unspeakable,  withered  as  tropic  foliage  at 
a  touch  of  frost.     No  doubt  it  was  as  well,  Madame  de  Vallorbes 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  209 

reflected  philosophically,  since  the  really  psychological  moment 
was  passed.     There  had  been  a  dinner  party  last  night,  and — 

But  here  the  young  lady's  reminiscences  broke  off  short. 
She  gathered  up  her  blue,  poplin,  scarlet-lined  skirts,  ran  down 
the  steps,  scattering  the  pea-fowl  to  right  and  left,  and  hastened 
across  the  graveL 

"  Wait  half  a  minute  for  me,  dear  Aunt  Katherine,"  she  cried. 
"  Are  you  going  to  the  conservatories  ?  I  would  so  like  to  see 
them.     May  I  go  too  ? " 

Lady  Calmady  stood  by  the  door  in  the  high,  red-brick  wall. 
She  wore  a  white,  lace  scarf  over  her  hair — turned  up  and  back, 
dressed  high,  as  of  old,  though  now  somewhat  grey  upon  the 
temples.  The  lace  was  tied  under  her  chin,  framing  her  face. 
In  her  grey  dress  she  looked  as  some  stately,  yet  gracious,  lady 
abbess  might — a  lady  abbess  who  had  known  love  in  all  fulness, 
yet  in  all  honour — a  lady  abbess  painted,  if  such  happy  chance 
could  be,  by  the  debonair  and  clean-hearted  Reynolds.  She 
stood  smiling,  charmed — though  a  trifle  unwillingly — by  the 
brilliant  vision  of  the  younger  woman. 

"  Assuredly  you  may  come  with  me,  if  it  would  amuse  you," 
she  said. 

"I  may?  Then  let  me  open  that  door  for  you.  La!  la! 
how  it  sticks.  Last  night's  rain  must  have  swelled  it" — and 
she  wrestled  unsuccessfully  with  the  lock. 

"  My  dear,  don't  try  any  more,"  Katherine  said.  "  You  will 
tire  yourself.  The  exertion  is  too  great  for  you.  I  will  go  back 
and  call  one  of  the  servants." 

"No,  no" — and  regardless  of  her  fine  laces,  and  trinkets, 
and  sables  Madame  de  Vallorbes  put  her  shoulder  against  the 
resisting  door  and  fairly  burst  it  open. 

"See,"  she  cried,  breathless  but  triumphant,  "I  am  very 
strong." 

"  You  are  very  pretty,"  Katherine  said,  almost  involuntarily. 
The  steeply-terraced  kitchen-gardens,  neat  box  edgings,  wide 
flower  borders  in  which  a  few  clumps  of  chrysanthemum  and 
Michaelmas  daisy  still  resisted  the  frost,  ranged  down  to  greenish 
brown  ponds  in  the  valley  bottom  spotted  with  busy,  quacking 
companies  of  white  ducks.  Beyond  was  an  ascending  slope  of 
thick  wood,  the  topmost  trees  of  which  showed  bare  against 
the  sky  line.  All  this  was  framed  by  the  arch  of  the  door. 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  glanced  at  it,  while  she  pulled  down 
the  soft  waves  of  hair,  which  her  late  exertions  had  slightly 
disarranged,  over  her  right  temple.  Then  she  turned  impulsively 
to  Lady  Calmady. 

14 


2IO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Aunt  Katherine,"  she  said.  "  I  would 
so  like  you  to  like  me,  you  know." 

"  I  should  be  rather  unpardonably  difficult  to  please,  if  I  did 
not  like  you,  my  dear,"  Lady  Calmady  answered.  But  she 
sighed  as  she  spoke. 

The  two  women  moved  away,  side  by  side,  down  the 
path  to  the  glistering  greenhouses.  But  Camp,  who,  missing 
Richard,  had  followed  his  mistress  out  of  the  house  for  a 
leisurely  morning  potter,  turned  back  sulkily  across  the  gravel 
homewards,  his  tail  limp,  his  heavy  head  carried  low.  His 
instincts  were  conservative,  as  has  been  already  mentioned.  He 
was  suspicious  of  new  -  comers.  And,  whoever  liked  this 
particular  new-comer,  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  he  was  sorry  to 
say  —  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  he  said  it  with  quite 
inconvenient  distinctness — he  did  not. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  DICKIE  TRIES  TO  RIDE  AWAY  FROM  HIS  OWN 
SHADOW,  WITH  SUCH  SUCCESS  AS  MIGHT  HAVi:  BEEN 
ANTICIPATED 

THAT  same  morning  Richard  was  up  and  out  early.  Fog 
had  followed  on  the  evening's  rain,  and  at  sunrise  still 
shrouded  all  the  landscape. 

"  Let  her  ladyship  know  I  breakfast  at  the  stables  and  shan't 
be  in  before  luncheon,"  he  had  said  to  Powell  while  settling 
himself  in  the  saddle.  Then,  followed  by  a  groom,  he  fared 
forth.  The  house  vanished  phantom-like  behind  him,  and  the 
clang  of  the  iron  gates  as  they  swung  to  was  muffled  by  the 
heavy  atmosphere,  while  he  rode  on  by  invisible  ways  across 
an  invisible  land,  hemmed  in,  close-encompassed,  pressed  upon, 
by  the  chill,  ashen  whiteness  of  the  fog. 

And  for  the  cold  silence  and  blankness  surrounding  him 
Richard  was  grateful.  It  was  restful — after  a  grim  fashion — and 
he  welcomed  rest,  having  passed  a  but  restless  night.  For 
Dickie  had  been  the  victim  of  much  travail  of  spirit.  His 
imagination  vexed  him,  pricking  up  slumbering  lusts  of  the 
flesh.  His  conscience  vexed  him  likewise,  suggesting  that  his 
attitude  had  not  been  pure  cousinly ;  and  this  shamed  him,  since 
he  was  still  singularly  unspotted  from  the  world,  noble  modesties 
and  decencies  still  paramount  in  him.     He  was  keenly,  some 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  211 

might  say  mawkishly,  sensible  of  the  stain  and  dishonour  of 
casting,  even  involuntarily  and  passingly,  covetous  glances  upon 
another  man's  goods.  In  sensation  and  apprehension  he  had 
Uved  at  racing  pace  during  the  last  few  days.  That  hour  in  the 
Long  Gallery  last  night  had  been  the  climax.  The  gates  of 
paradise  had  opened  before  him.  And,  since  opposites  of 
necessity  imply  their  opposites,  the  gates  of  hell  had  opened 
likewise.  It  appeared  to  Dickie  that  the  great  poets,  and 
painters,  and  musicians,  the  great  lovers  even,  had  nothing  left 
to  tell  him — for  he  knew.  Knew,  moreover,  that  his  Eden  had 
come  to  him  with  the  angel  of  the  fiery  sword  that  "turneth 
every  way  "  standing  at  the  threshold  of  it — knew,  yet  further, 
as  he  had  never  known  before,  the  immensity  of  the  difficulties, 
disabilities,  humiliations,  imposed  on  him  by  his  deformity. 
Bitterly,  nakedly,  he  called  his  trouble  by  that  offensive  name. 
Then  he  straightened  himself  in  the  saddle.  Yes,  welcome  the 
cold  weight  against  his  chest,  welcome  the  silence,  the  blankness, 
the  dead,  ashen  pallor  of  the  fog  ! 

But  just  where  the  tan  ride,  leading  down  across  the  road  to 
the  left,  diverges  from  the  main  road,  this  source  of  negative 
consolation  began  to  fail  him.  For  a  draw  of  fresher  air  came 
from  westward,  causing  the  blurred,  wet  branches  to  quiver  and 
the  pall  of  mist  to  gather,  and  then  break  and  melt  under  its 
wholesome  breath,  while  the  rays  of  the  laggard  sun,  clearing 
the  edge  of  the  fir  forest,  eastward,  pierced  it,  hastening  its 
dissolution.  Therefore  it  followed  that  by  the  time  Richard 
rode  in  under  the  stable  archway,  he  found  the  great  yard  full 
of  noise  and  confused  movement.  The  stable  doors  stood  wide 
along  one  side  of  the  quadrangle.  Stunted,  boyish  figures 
shambled  hither  and  thither,  unwillingly  deserting  the  remnants 
of  half-eaten  breakfasts,  among  the  iron  mugs  and  platters  of 
the  long,  deal  tables  of  the  refectory.  Chifiiey  and  Breiston 
— the  head-lad — hurried  them,  shouting  orders,  admonishing, 
inciting  to  greater  ra{)idity  of  action.  And  the  boys  were  sulky. 
The  thick  morning  had  promoted  hopes  of  an  hour  or  two  of 
unwonted  idleness.  Now  those  poor,  little  hopes  were  summarily 
blighted.  Lazy,  pinched  with  cold  by  the  raw  morning  air, 
still  a  bit  hungry,  sick  even,  or  downright  frightened,  they  must 
mount  and  away — the  long  line  of  racehorses  streaming,  in 
single  file,  up  the  hillside  to  the  exercising  ground — with  as 
short  delay  as  possible,  or  Mr.  Chifney  and  his  ash  stick  would 
know  the  reason  why. 

There  were  elements  of  brutality  in  the  scene  from  which 
Richard  would,    oftentimes,    have    recoiled.      To-day    he   was 


212  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

selfish,  absorbed  to  the  point  of  callousness.  If  he  remarked 
them  at  all,  it  was  in  bitter  welcome,  as  he  had  welcomed  the 
chill  and  staring  blankncss  of  the  fog.  He  was  indifferent  to 
the  fact  that  Chifney  was  harsh,  the  horses  testy  or  wicked,  that 
the  boys'  noses  were  red,  and  that  they  blew  their  purple  fingers 
before  laying  hold  of  the  reins  in  a  vain  attempt  to  promote 
circulation.  Dickie  sat  still  as  a  statue  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
turmoil,  the  handle  of  his  crop  resting  on  his  thigh,  his  eyes 
hot  from  sleeplessness  and  wild  thoughts,  his  face  hard  as 
marble. — Unhappy?  Wasn't  he  unhappy  too ?  Suffer?  Well, 
let  them  suffer — within  reasonable  limits.  Suffering  was  the 
fundamental  law  of  existence.  They  must  bow  to  the  workings 
of  it  along  with  the  rest. 

But  one  wretched,  little  chap  fairly  blubbered.  He  had  been 
kicked  in  the  stomach  some  three  weeks  earlier,  and  had  been 
in  hospital.  This  was  his  first  morning  out.  He  had  grown 
soft,  and  was  light-headed,  his  knees  all  of  a  shake.  By  means 
of  voluminous  threats  Preiston  got  him  up.  But  he  sat  his 
horse  all  of  a  huddle,  as  limp  as  a  half-empty  sack  of  chaff. 
Richard  looked  on  feeling,  not  pity,  but  only  irritation,  finally 
amounting  to  anger.  The  child's  whole  aspect  and  the  snivelling 
sounds  he  made  were  so  hatefully  ugly.     It  disgusted  him. 

"  Here,  Chifney,  leave  that  fellow  at  home,"  he  said.  "  He's 
no  good." 

"  He's  malingering,  Sir  Richard.  I  know  his  sort.  Give 
in  to  him  now  and  we  shall  have  the  same  game,  and  worse, 
over  again  to-morrow." 

"Very  probably,"  Richard  answered.  "Only  it  is  evident 
he  has  no  more  hand  and  no  more  grip  than  a  sick  cat  to-day. 
We  shall  have  some  mess  with  him,  and  I'm  not  in  the  humour 
for  a  mess,  so  just  leave  him.  There,  boy,  stop  crying.  Do  you 
hear?"  he  added,  wheeling  round  on  the  small  unfortunate. 
"Mr.  Chifney '11  give  you  another  day  off  and  the  doctor  will 
see  you.  Only  if  he  reports  you  fit  and  you  give  the  very  least 
trouble  to-morrow,  you'll  be  turned  out  of  the  stables  there 
and  then.     We've  no  use  for  shirkers.     Do  you  understand?" 

In  spite  of  his  irritation,  the  hardness  of  Richard's  expression 
relaxed  as  he  finished  speaking.  The  poor,  little  beggar  was 
so  abject  —  too  abject  indeed  for  common  decency,  since  he 
too,  after  all,  was  human.  Richard's  own  self-respect  made  it 
incumbent  upon  him  to  lift  the  creature  out  of  the  pit  of  so 
absolutely  unseemly  a  degradation.  He  looked  kindly  at  him, 
smiled,  and  promptly  forgot  all  about  him.  While  to  the  boy 
it  seemed  that  the  gods  had  verily  descended  in  the  likeness  of 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  213 

men,  and  he  would  have  bartered  his  little,  dirty,  blear-eyed 
rudiment  of  a  soul  thenceforward  for  another  such  a  look  from 
Richard  Calmady. 

Dickie  promptly  forgot  the  boy,  yet  some  virtue  must  have 
been  in  the  episode  for  he  began  to  feel  better  in  himself.  As 
the  horses  filed  away  through  the  misty  sunshine — Preiston 
riding  beside  the  fourth  or  fifth  of  the  string,  while  Richard  and 
Chifney  brought  up  the  rear,  his  chestnut  suiting  its  paces  to 
the  shorter  stride  of  the  trainer's  cob — the  fever  of  the  night 
cooled  down  in  him.  Half  thankfully,  half  amusedly,  he  perceived 
things  begin  to  assume  their  normal  relations.  He  filled  his 
lungs  with  the  pure  air,  felt  the  sun-dazzle  pleasant  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  run  somewhat  mad  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours  surely  ? 
He  was  not  such  a  fatuous  ass  as  to  have  mistaken  Helen's 
frank  camaraderie,  her  bright  interest  in  things,  her  charming 
little  ways  of  showing  cousinly  regard,  for  some  deeper,  more 
personal  feeling?  She  had  been  divinely  kind,  but  that  was 
just  her — just  the  outcome  of  her  delightful  nature.  She  would 
go  away  on  Friday — Saturday  perhaps — he  rather  hoped  Saturday 
— and  be  just  as  divinely  kind  to  other  people.  And  then  he 
shook  himself,  feeling  the  languid  weight  of  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  again.  Would  she — would — ?  For  an  instant  he 
wanted  to  get  at,  and  incontinently  brain,  those  other  people. 
After  which,  Richard  mentally  took  himself  by  the  throat  and 
proceeded  to  choke  the  folly  out  of  himself. — Yes,  she  would  go 
back  to  all  those  other  people,  back  moreover  to  the  Vicomte 
de  Vallorbes — whom,  by  the  way,  it  occurred  to  him  she  so 
seldom  mentioned.  Well,  we  don't  continually  talk  about  the 
people  we  love  best,  do  we,  to  comparative  strangers?  She 
would  go  back  to  her  husl^and— her  husband. — Richard  repeated 
the  words  over  to  himself  sternly,  trying  to  drive  them  home, 
to  burn  them  into  his  consciousness  past  all  possibility  of 
forgetting. 

Anyhow  she  had  been  wonderfully  sweet  and  charming  to 
him.  She  had  shown  him — quite  unconsciously,  of  course — what 
life  might  be  for — for  somebody  else.  She  had  revealed  to  him — 
what  indeed  had  she  not  revealed!  He  remembered  the  spirit 
of  expectation  that  possessed  him  riding  back  through  the 
autumn  woods  the  day  he  first  met  her.  The  expectation  had 
been  more  than  justified  by  the  se(iuel.  Only  —  (Jiily — and 
then  Dick  became  stern  with  himself  again.  For,  she  having, 
unconsciously,  done  so  much  for  him,  was  it  not  his  first  duty 
never  to  distress  her? — never  to  let  lier  know  how  much  deeper 
it  had  all  gone  with  him   than  with   her? — never  to  insult  her 


214  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

beautiful  innocence  by  a  word  or  look  suggesting  an  affection 
less  frank  and  cousinly  than  her  own  ? 

Only,  since  even  our  strongest  purposes  have  moments  of 
lapse  and  weakness  in  execution,  it  would  be  safer,  perhaps,  not 
to  be  much  alone  with  her — since  she  didn't  know — how  should 
she  ?  Yes,  Richard  agreed  with  himself  not  to  loaf,  to  allow  no 
idle  hours.  He  would  ride,  he  would  see  to  business.  There 
were  a  whole  heap  of  estate  matters  claiming  attention.  He 
had  neglected  them  shamefully  of  late.  Unquestionably  Helen 
counted  for  very  much,  would  continue  to  do  so.  He  supposed 
he  would  carry  the  ache  of  certain  memories  about  with  him 
henceforth  and  forever.  She  had  become  part  of  the  very 
fibre  of  his  life.  He  never  doubted  that.  And  yet,  he  told 
himself, — assuming  a  second-hand  garment  of  slightly  cynical 
philosophy  which  suited  singularly  ill  with  the  love -light  in 
his  eyes,  there  radiantly  apparent  for  all  the  world  to  see, — that 
woman,  even  the  one  who  first  shows  you  you  have  a  heart, 
and  a  body  too,  worse  luck,  even  she  is  but  a  drop  in  the 
vast  ocean  of  things.  There  remains  all  The  Rest.  And  with 
praiseworthy  diligence  Dickie  set  himself  to  reckon  how  im- 
mensely much  all  The  Rest  amounts  to.  There  is  plenty, 
exclusive  of  her,  to  think  about.  More  than  enough,  indeed, 
to  keep  one  hard  at  work  all  day,  and  send  one  to  bed  honestly 
tired,  to  sleeping-point,  at  night.  Politics  for  instance,  science, 
literature,  entertaining  little  controversial  rows  of  sorts  —  the 
simple,  almost  patriarchal,  duties  of  a  great  land-owner;  pleasant 
hobbies  such  as  the  collection  of  first  editions,  or  a  pretty  taste 
in  the  binding  of  favourite  books  —  the  observation  of  this 
mysterious,  ever  young,  ever  fertile  nature  around  him  now, 
immutable  order  underlaying  ceaseless  change,  the  ever  new 
wonder  and  beauty  of  all  that,  and  :  —  "I  say,  Chifney,  isn't  the 
brown  Lady-Love  filly  going  rather  short  on  the  off  foreleg? 
Anything  wrong  with  her  shoulder?"  —  and  sport.  Yes,  thank 
God,  in  the  name  of  everything  healthy  and  virile,  sport  and, 
above  all,  horses — yes,  horses. 

Thus  did  Richard  Calmady  reason  with,  and  essay  to  solace, 
himself  for  the  fact  that  some  fruits  are  forbidden  to  him  who 
holds  honour  dear.  Reasoned  with  and  solaced  himself  to  such 
good  purpose,  as  he  fondly  imagined,  that  when,  an  hour  and  a 
half  later,  he  established  himself  in  the  trainer's  dining-room,  a 
mighty  breakfast  outspread  before  him,  he  felt  quite  another 
man.  Racing  cups  adorned  the  chimneypiece  and  sideboard, 
portraits  of  racehorses  and  jockeys  adorned  the  walls.  The  sun 
streamed  in  between  the  red  rep  curtains,  causing  the  pot-plants 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  215 

in  the  window  to  give  off  a  pleasant  scent,  and  the  canary,  in 
his  swinging,  blue  and  white  painted,  cage  above  them,  to  sing. 
Mrs.  Chifney,  her  cheeks  pink,  her  manner  slightly  fluttered, — 
as  were  her  lilac  cap  strings, — presided  over  the  silver  tea  and 
coffee  service,  admonished  the  staid  and  bulky  tom-cat  who, 
jumping  on  the  arm  of  Dickie's  chair,  extended  a  scooping 
tentative  paw  towards  his  plate,  and  issued  gentle  though 
peremptory  orders  to  her  husband  regarding  the  material  needs 
of  her  guest.  To  Mrs.  Chifney  such  entertainings  as  the 
present  marked  the  red-letter  days  of  her  calendar.  Temporarily 
she  forgave  Chifney  the  doubtful  nature  of  his  caUing,  and  his 
occasional  outbreaks  of  profane  swearing  likewise.  She  ceased 
to  regret  that  snug,  might-have-been,  little,  grocery  business  in  a 
country  town.  She  forgot  even  to  hanker  after  prayer-meetings, 
anniversary  teas,  and  other  mild,  soul-saving  dissipations  un- 
authorised by  the  Church  of  England.  She  ruffled  her  feathers, 
so  to  speak,  and  cooed  to  the  young  man  half  in  feudal,  half  in 
unsatisfied  maternal  affection — for  Mrs.  Chifney  was  childless. 
And  it  followed  that  as  he  teased  her  a  little,  going  back  banter- 
ingly  on  certain  accepted  subjects  of  difference  between  them, 
praised,  and  made  a  hole  in,  her  fresh-baked  rolls,  her  nicely 
browned,  fried  potatoes,  her  clear,  crinkled  rashers,  assuring  her 
it  gave  one  an  appetite  merely  to  sit  down  in  a  room  so 
shiningly  clean  and  spick  and  span,  she  was  supremely  happy. 
And  Dickie  was  happy  too,  and  blessed  the  exercise,  the  food, 
and  the  society  of  these  simple  persons,  which,  after  his  evil 
night,  seemed  to  have  restored  to  him  his  wiser  and  better 
self. 

"  He  always  was  the  noblest  looking  young  gentleman  I  ever 
saw,"  Mrs.  Chifney  remarked  subsequently  to  her  husband. 
"But  here  at  breakfast  this  morning,  when  he  said,  'If  you 
won't  be  shocked,  Mrs.  Chifney,  I  believe  I  could  manage  a 
second  helping  of  that  game  pie,'  his  face  was  like  a  very 
angel's  from  heaven.  Unearthly  beautiful,  Thomas,  and  yet 
a  sort  of  pain  at  the  back  of  it.  It  gave  me  a  regular  turn. 
I  had  to  shed  a  few  tears  afterwards  when  I  got  alone  by 
myself." 

"You're  one  of  those  that  see  more  than's  there,  half  your 
time,  Maria,"  the  trainer  answered,  with  an  unusual  effort  at 
sarcasm,  for  he  was  not  wholly  easy  about  the  young  man 
himself. — "There's  something  up  with  him,  and  danged  if  I 
know  what  it  is."     But  these  reflections  he  kept  to  himself. 

Dr.  Knott,  later  that  same  day,  made  reflections  of  a  similar 
nature.       For   though    Dickie    adhered   valiantly   to   his   good 


2i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

resolutions — going  out  with  the  second  lot  of  horses  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  riding  on  to  Banister's  farm  to  inspect 
the  new  barn  and  cowsheds  in  course  of  erection,  then  hurrying 
down  to  Sandyfield  Street  and  listening  to  long  and  heated 
arguments  regarding  a  right-of-way  reported  to  exist  across 
the  meadows  skirting  the  river  just  above  the  bridge,  a  right 
strongly  denied  by  the  present  occupier,  —  notwithstanding 
these  improving  and  public  -  spirited  employments,  the  love- 
light  grew  in  his  eyes  all  through  the  long  morning,  causing 
his  appearance  to  have  something,  if  not  actually  angelic,  yet 
singularly  engaging,  about  it.  For,  unquestionably,  next  to  a 
fortunate  attachment,  an  unfortunate  one,  if  honest,  is  among  the 
most  inspiring  and  grace  -  begetting  of  possessions  granted  to 
mortals. — Helen  must  never  know — that  was  well  understood. 
Yet  the  more  Dickie  thought  the  whole  affair  over,  the  more  he 
recognised  the  fine  romance  of  thus  cherishing  a  silent  and 
secret  devotion.  He  was  very  young  in  this  line  as  yet,  it  may 
be  observed.  Meanwhile  it  was  nearly  two  o'clock.  He  would 
need  to  ride  home  sharply  if  he  was  to  be  in  time  for  luncheon. 
And  at  luncheon  he  would  meet  her.  And  remembering  that, 
his  heart — traitorous  heart — beat  quick,  and  his  lips — traitorous 
lips — began  to  repeat  her  name.  Thus  do  the  gods  of  life  and 
death  love  to  play  chuck-farthing  with  the  wise  purposes  of  men, 
the  theory  of  the  eternal  laughter  having  a  root  of  truth  in  it,  as 
it  would  seem,  after  all !  And  there  ahead  of  him,  under  the 
shifting,  dappled  shadow  of  the  over-arching  firs.  Dr.  Knott's 
broad,  cumbersome  back,  and  high,  two-wheeled  trap,  blocked 
the  road,  while  Timothy,  the  old  groom, — stiff-kneed  now  and 
none  too  active, — slowly  pushed  open  the  heavy,  white  gate  of 
the  inner  park. 

As  Richard  rode  up,  the  doctor  turned  in  his  seat  and 
looked  at  him  from  under  his  rough  eyebrows,  while  his  loose 
lips  worked  into  a  half-ironical  smile.  He  loved  this  lad  of 
great  fortune,  and  great  misfortune,  more  tenderly  than  he 
quite  cared  to  own.  Then,  as  Dick  checked  his  horse  beside 
the  cart,  he  growled  out : — 

"No  need  to  make  anxious  inquiries  regarding  your  health, 
young  sir.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  eh  ?  You 
look  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  and  as  fresh  as  paint." 

"  If  I  look  as  I  feel  I  must  look  ravenously  hungry," 
Richard  answered,  flushing  up  a  little.  "  I've  been  out  since 
si.x." 

"  Had  some  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Oh   dear,   yes !      Enough    to   teach    one   to   know   what 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  217 

a    jolly    thing    a    good    meal    is,    and    make    one    wish    for 
another." 

"Hum!"      Dr.    Knott   said.      "That's   a   healthy  state   of 
affairs,  anyhow.     Young  horses  going  well?" 
"  Famously." 

"Bless  me,  everything's  beer  and  skittles  with  you  just  at 
present  then  ! " 

Richard  looked  away  down  the  smooth  yellow  road  whereon 
the  dappled  shadows  kissed  and  mingled,  mingled  and  kissed, 
and  his  heart  cried  "  Helen,  Helen,"  once  again. 

"Oh  !  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  get  my  share 
as  well  as  the  rest  I  suppose  —  at  least  —  anyway  the  horses 
are  doing  capitally  this  season." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  them." 

"  Oh,  well  you've  only  got  to  say  when,  you  know.  I  shall 
be  only  too  delighted  to  show  them  you." 

As  he  walked  the  trap  through  the  gateway,  Dr.  Knott 
watched  Richard  riding  alongside.  — "  What's  up  with  the 
boy,"  he  thought.  "  His  face  is  as  keen  as  a  knife,  and  as 
soft  as — God  help  us,  I  hope  there's  no  sweethearting  on  hand  ! 
It's  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later,  but  the  later  the  better,  for 
it'll  be  a  risky  enough  set  out,  come  when  it  may. — Ah,  look  out 
there  now,  you  old  fool," — this  to  Timothy, — "don't  go  missing 
the  step  and  laying  yourself  up  with  broken  ribs  for  another 
three  months,  just  when  my  work's  at  its  heaviest.  Be  careful, 
can't  you  ?  " 

"But  why  not  come  in  to  luncheon  now?"  Richard  said, 
wisdom  whipping  up  good  resolutions  once  more,  and  bidding 
him  check  the  gladness  that  gained  on  him  at  thought  of  that 
approaching  meeting.  Oh  yes  !  he  would  be  discreet,  he  would 
erect  barriers,  he  would  flee  temptation.  Knott's  presence 
offered  a  finely  rugged  barrier,  surely.  Therefore,  he  repeated : — 
"  Come  in  now.  My  mother  will  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and 
we  can  have  a  look  round  tlie  stables  afterwards." 

"  I'll  come  fast  enough  if  Lady  Calmady  will  take  me  as  I  am. 
Work-a-day  clothes,  and  second  best  lot  at  that.  You're  alone, 
I  su{)[)ose  ?  " 

He  watched  the  young  man  as  he  spoke.  Noted  the  lift  of 
his  chin,  and  the  slightly  studied  indifference  of  his  manner. 

"  No,  for  once  we're  not.  But  that  doesn't  matter.  My  uncle 
^Villiam  Ormiston  is  with  us.     You  remember  him?" 

"  I  remember  his  wife." 

"Oh!  she's  not  h.re,"  Dickie  said.  "Only  he  and  his 
daughter,  Madame  de  Vallorbes.     You'll  come?" 


2i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,  Til  come,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  prepare 
your  ladies  for  a  rough-looking  customer.  Don't  let  me  keep  you. 
Wonder  what  the  daughter's  like?"  he  added  to  himself.  "The 
mother  was  a  bit  of  a  baggage." 


CHAPTER  VII 

\\'HEREIN    THE    READER    IS    COURTEOUSLY    INVITED    TO    IMPROVE 
HIS    ACQUAINTANCE    AVITH    CERTAIN    PERSONS    OF    QUALITi' 

BUT  Richard  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of 
erecting  barriers  against  too  intimate  intercourse  with 
his  cousin.  Providence,  awaking  suddenly,  as  it  would  seem,  to 
the  perils  of  his  position,  had  already  seen  to  all  that.  For  since 
he  went  forth,  hot-eyed  and  hot-headed,  into  the  blank  chill  of  the 
fog,  the  company  at  Brockhurst — as  Powell  announced  to  him — 
had  suffered  large  and  unlooked-for  increase.  Ludovic  Quayle 
was  the  first  of  the  self-invited  guests  to  appear  when  Richard 
was  settled  in  the  dining-room.  He  sauntered  up  to  the  head  of 
the  table  with  his  accustomed  air  of  slightly  supercilious  inquiry, 
as  of  one  who  expects  to  meet  little  save  fools  and  foolishness, 
yet  suffers  these  gladly,  being  quite  secure  of  his  own  wisdom. 

"How  are  you,  Dickie?"  he  said.  " Fairly  robust  I  hope, 
for  the  Philistines  are  upon  you.  Still  it  might  have  been  worse. 
I  have  done  what  I  could.  My  father,  who  has  never  grasped 
that  there  is  an  element  of  comedy  in  the  numerical  strength  of 
his  family,  wished  to  bring  us  over  a  party  of  eight.  But  I 
stopped  that.  Four,  as  I  tried  to  make  him  comprehend, 
touched  the  limits  of  social  decency.  He  didn't  comprehend. 
He  rarely  does.  But  he  yielded,  which  was  more  to  the  point 
perhaps.  Understand  though,  we  didn't  propose  to  add  surprise 
to  the  other  doubtful  blessings  of  our  descent  on  you.  I  wrote 
to  you  yesterday,  but  it  appears  you  went  out  at  some  unearthly 
hour  this  morning  superior  alike  to  the  state  of  the  weather  and 
arrival  of  your  letters." 

"  Fine  thing  going  out  early — excellent  thing  going  out  early. 
Very  glad  to  see  you,  Calmady,  and  very  kind  indeed  of  you  and 
Lady  Calmady  to  take  us  in  in  this  friendly  way  and  show  us 
hospitality  at  such  short  notice  " — 

This  from  Lord  Fallowfeild  —  a  remarkably  tall,  large,  and 
handsome  person.  He  affected  a  slightly  antiquated  style  of 
dress,  with  a  sporting  turn  to  it, — coats  of  dust  colour  or  grey, 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  219 

notably  long  as  to  the  skirts,  well  fitted  at  the  waist,  the  surface 
of  them  traversed  by  heavy  seams.  His  double  chin  rested 
within  the  points  of  a  high,  white  collar,  and  was  further 
supported  by  a  voluminous,  black,  satin  stock.  His  face,  set 
in  soft,  grey  hair  and  grey  whisker,  brushed  well  forward,  sug- 
gested that  of  a  benign  and  healthy  infant — an  infant,  it  may 
be  added,  possessed  of  a  small  and  particularly  pretty  mouth. 
Save  in  actual  stature,  indeed,  his  lordship  had  never  quite 
succeeded  in  growing  up.  Very  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness, he  earnestly  wished  his  fellow-creatures — gentle  and  simple 
alike — to  be  as  contented  and  happy  as  he,  almost  invariably, 
himself  was.  When  he  had  reason  to  believe  them  otherwise,  it 
perplexed  and  worried  him  greatly.  It  followed  that  he  was 
embarrassed,  apologetic  even,  in  Richard  Calmady's  presence. 
He  felt  vaguely  responsible  as  for  some  neglected  duty,  as  though 
there  was  something  somehow  which  he  ought  to  set  right.  And 
this  feeling  harassed  him,  increasing  the  natural  discursiveness 
and  inconsequence  of  his  speech.  He  was  so  terribly  nervous 
of  forgetting  and  of  hurting  the  young  man's  feelings  by  saying 
the  wrong  thing,  that  all  possible  wrong  things  got  upon  his 
brain,  with  the  disastrous  result  that  of  course  he  ended  by  saying 
them.  In  face  of  a  person  so  sadly  stationary  as  poor  Dick, 
moreover,  his  own  perfect  ability  to  move  freely  about  appeared 
to  him  as  little  short  of  discourteous,  not  to  say  coarse.  He, 
therefore,  tried  to  keep  very  still,  with  the  consequence  that  he 
developed  an  inordinate  tendency  to  fidget.  Altogether  Lord 
Fallowfeild  did  not  show  to  advantage  in  Richard  Calmady's 
company. 

"  Ah  yes  !  fine  thing  going  out  early,"  he  repeated.  "Always 
made  a  practice  of  it  myself  at  your  age,  Calmady.  Can't  stand 
doctor's  stuff,  don't  believe  in  it,  never  did.  Though  I  like 
Knott,  good  fellow  Knott — always  have  liked  Knott.  15ut  never 
was  a  believer  in  drugs.  Nothing  better  than  a  good  sharp  walk, 
now,  early,  really  early  before  the  frost's  out  of  the  grass.  Ex- 
cellent for  the  liver  walking" — 

Here,  perceiving  that  his  son  Ludovic  looked  very  hard  at 
him,  eyebrows  raised  to  most  admonitory  height,  he  added 
hastily : — 

"lih? — yes,  of  course,  or  riding.  Riding,  nothing  like  that 
for  health — better  exercise  still  " — 

"Is  it?"  Richard  put  in.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  own 
ttioughts  to  be  greatly  affected  by  Lord  Fallowfcild's  blunders 
just  then. — "  I'm  glad  to  know  you  think  so.  Vou  see  it's  a 
matter  in  which  I'm  not  very  much  of  a  judge." 


220  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  No — no — of  course  not. — Queer  fellow  Calmady,"  Lord 
Fallowfeild  added  to  himself.  "  Uncommonly  sharp  way  he  has 
of  setting  you  down." 

But  just  then,  to  his  relief.  Lady  Calmady,  Lady  Louisa 
Barking,  and  pretty,  little  Lady  Constance  Quayle  entered  the 
room  together.  Mr.  Ormiston  and  John  Knott  followed  engaged 
in  close  conversation,  the  rugged,  rough-hewn  aspect  of  the  latter 
presenting  a  strong  contrast  to  the  thin,  tall  figure  and  face, 
white  and  refined  to  the  point  of  emaciation,  of  the  diplomatist. 
Julius  March,  accompanied  by  Camp — still  carrying  his  tail  limp 
and  his  great  head  rather  sulkily — brought  up  the  rear.  And 
Dickie,  while  greeting  his  guests,  disposing  their  places  at  table, 
making  civil  speeches  to  his  immediate  neighbour  on  the  left, — 
Lady  Louisa, — smiling  a  good-morning  to  his  mother  down  the 
length  of  the  table,  felt  a  wave  of  childish  disappointment  sweep 
over  him.  For  Helen  came  not,  and  with  a  great  desiring  he 
desired  her.  Poor  Dickie,  so  wise,  so  philosophic  in  fancy,  so 
enviably,  disastrously  young  in  fact ! 

"Oh!  thanks,  Lady  Louisa — it's  so  extremely  kind  of  you 
to  care  to  come.  The  fog  was  rather  beastly  this  morning  wasn't 
it  ?  And  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  came  down  on  us  again 
about  sunset.  But  it's  a  charming  day  meanwhile. — There, 
Ludovic,  please — next  Dr.  Knott.  We'll  leave  this  chair  for 
Madame  de  Vallorbes.     She's  coming,  I  suppose?" 

And  Richard  glanced  towards  the  door  again,  and,  so  doing, 
became  aware  that  little  Lady  Constance,  sitting  between  Lord 
Fallowfeild  and  Julius  March,  was  staring  at  him.  She  had  an 
innocent  face,  a  small,  feminine  copy  of  her  father's  save  that 
her  eyes  were  set  noticeably  far  apart.  This  gave  her  a  slow, 
ruminant  look,  distinctly  attractive.  She  reminded  Richard  of  a 
gentle,  well-conditioned,  sweet-breathed  calf  staring  over  a  bank 
among  ox-eyed  daisies  and  wild  roses.  As  soon  as  she  perceived — 
but  Lady  Constance  did  not  perceive  anything  very  rapidly — that 
he  observed  her,  she  gave  her  whole  attention  to  the  contents  of 
her  plate  and  her  colour  deepened  perceptibly. 

"  Pretty  country  about  you  here,  uncommonly  pretty,"  Lord 
Fallowfeild  was  saying  in  response  to  some  remark  of  Lady 
Calmady's.  "  Always  did  admire  it.  Always  liked  a  meet  on 
this  side  of  the  county  when  I  had  the  hounds.  Very  pleasant 
friendly  spirit  on  this  side  too.  Now  Cathcart,  for  instance — 
sensible  fellow  Cathcart,  always  have  liked  Cathcart,  remarkably 
sensible  fellow.  Plain  man  though — quite  astonishingly  plain. 
Daughter  very  much  like  him,  I  remember.  Misfortune  for  a 
girl   that.     Always   feel  very   much   for  a  plain  woman.     She 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  221 

married  well  though — can't  recall  who  just  now,  but  somebody 
we  all  know.     Who  was  it  now,  Lady  Calmady  ?  " 

Between  that  haunting  sense  of  embarrassment,  and  the 
kindly  wish  to  carry  things  off  well,  and  promote  geniality,  Lord 
Fallowfeild  spoke  loud.  At  this  juncture  Mr.  Quayle  folded  his 
hands  and  raised  his  eyes  devoutly  to  heaven. 

"Oh,  my  father!  oh,  my  father!"  he  murmured.  Then  he 
leant  a  little  forward  watching  Lady  Calmady. 

"  But,  as  you  may  remember,  Mary  Cathcart  had  a  charming 
figure,"  she  was  saying,  very  sweetly,  essaying  to  soften  the 
coming  blow. 

"Ah!  had  she  though ?  Great  thing  a  good  figure.  I  knew 
she  married  well." 

"  Naturally  I  agree  with  you  there.  I  suppose  one  always 
thinks  one's  own  people  the  most  delightful  in  the  world.  She 
married  my  brother." 

"  Did  she  though  ! "  Lord  Fallowfeild  exclaimed,  with  much 
interest.  Then  suddenly  his  tumbler  stopped  half-way  to  his  mouth, 
while  he  gazed  horror-stricken  across  the  table  at  Mr.  Ormiston. 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  not  that  brother,"  Katherine  added  quickly. 
"  The  younger  one,  the  soldier.  You  wouldn't  remember 
him.  He's  been  on  foreign  service  almost  ever  since  his 
marriage.     They  are  at  the  Cape  now." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes — indeed,  are  they  ? "  he  exclaimed.  He 
breathed  more  easily.  Those  few  thousand  miles  to  the  Cape 
were  a  great  comfort  to  him.  A  man  could  not  overhear  your 
strictures  on  his  wife's  personal  appearance  at  that  distance 
anyhow. — "  Very  charming  woman,  uncommonly  tactful  woman, 
Lady  Calmady,"  he  said  to  himself  gratefully. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Louisa  Barking,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  addressed  her  discourse  to  Richard  and  Julius,  on  either 
side  of  her,  in  the  high,  penetrating  key  affected  by  certain  ladies  of 
distinguished  social  pretensions.  Whether  this  manner  of  s[)eech 
implies  a  fine  conviction  of  superiority  on  the  part  of  the 
speaker,  or  a  conviction  that  all  her  utterances  are  replete 
with  intrinsic  interest,  it  is  difficult  to  determine.  Certain 
it  is  that  Lady  Louisa  practically  addressed  the  table,  the 
attendant  men-servants,  all  creation  in  point  of  fact,  as  well  as 
her  two  immediate  neighbours.  Like  her  father  she  was  large 
and  handsome.  But  her  expression  lacked  his  amiability,  her 
attitude  his  pleasing  self-distrust.  In  age  she  was  about  six-and- 
thirty  and  decidedly  mature  for  that.  She  possessed  a  remark- 
able power  of  concentrating  her  mind  upon  her  own  affairs. 
She   also   laboured   under   the   impression   that  she  was   truly 


222  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

religious,  listening  weekly  to  the  sermons  of  fashionable 
preachers  on  the  convenient  text  that  "  worldliness  is  next  to 
godliness "  and  entertaining  prejudices,  finely  unqualified  by 
accurate  knowledge,  against  the  abominable  errors  of  Rome. 

"  I  was  getting  so  terribly  fagged  with  canvassing  that  my 
doctor  told  me  I  really  must  go  to  Whitney  and  recruit.  Of 
course  Mr.  Barking  is  perfectly  secure  of  his  seat.  I  am  in  no 
real  anxiety,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  He  does  not  speak  much  in 
the  House.  But  I  always  feel  speaking  is  quite  a  minor  matter, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"Doubtless,"  Julius  said,  the  remark  appearing  to  be 
delivered  at  him  in  particular. 

"The  great  point  is  that  your  party  should  be  able  to  depend 
absolutely  upon  your  loyalty.  Being  rather  behind  the  scenes, 
as  I  can't  help  being,  you  know,  I  do  feel  that  more  and  more. 
And  the  party  depends  absolutely  upon  Mr.  Barking.  He  has  so 
much  moral  stamina,  you  know.  That  is  what  they  all  feel. 
He  is  ready  at  any  moment  to  sacrifice  his  private  convictions  to 
party  interests.  And  so  few  members  of  any  real  position  are 
willing  to  do  that.  And  so,  of  course,  the  leaders  do  depend  on 
him.  All  the  members  of  the  Government  consult  him  in 
private." 

"That  is  very  flattering,"  Richard  remarked. — Still  Helen 
tarried ;  while  again,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  he 
encountered  Lady  Constance's  mild,  ruminant  stare. 

"  Can  one  pronounce  anything  flattering  when  one  sees  it  to 
be  so  completely  deserved?"  Ludovic  Quayle  inquired  in  his 
most  urbane  manner.  "  Prompt  and  perpetual  sacrifice  of 
private  conviction  to  party  interest,  for  example— how  can  such 
devotion  receive  recognition  beyond  its  deserts  ?  " 

"  Do  have  some  more  partridge,  Lady  Louisa,"  Richard  put 
in  hastily. 

"  In  any  case  such  recognition  is  very  satisfactory. — No  more, 
thank  you.  Sir  Richard,"  the  lady  replied,  not  without  a  touch  of 
acerbity.  Ludovic  was  very  clever  no  doubt ;  but  his  comments 
often  struck  her  as  being  in  equivocal  taste.  He  gave  a  turn 
to  your  words  you  did  not  expect  and  so  broke  the  thread  of 
your  conversation  in  a  rather  exasperating  fashion. — "  Very  satis- 
factory," she  repeated.  "  And,  of  course,  the  constituency  is 
fully  informed  of  the  attitude  of  the  Government  towards  Mr. 
Barking,  so  that  serious  opposition  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Oh  !  of  course,"  Richard  echoed. 

"  Still  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  canvass.  One  can  point  out  many 
things  to  the  constituents  in  their  own  homes  which  might  not 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  223 

come  quite  so  well,  don't  you  know,  from  the  platform.     And  of 
course  they  enjoy  seeing  one  so  much." 

"Of  course,  it  makes  a  great  change  for  them,"  Richard 
echoed  dutifully. 

"  Exactly,  and  so  on  their  account,  quite  putting  aside  the 
chance  of  securing  a  stray  vote  here  or  there,  I  feel  it  a  duty  not 
to  spare  myself,  but  to  go  through  with  it  just  for  their  sakes, 
don't  you  know." 

"  My  sister  is  nothing  if  not  altruistic,  you'll  find,  Calmady," 
Mr.  Quayle  here  put  in  in  his  most  exquisitely  amiable  manner. 

But    now    encouraged    thereto    by    Lady    Calmady,    Lord 
Fallowfeild   had    recovered    his   accustomed   serenity  and   dis 
coursed  with  renewed  cheerfulness. 

"  Great  loss  to  this  side  of  the  county,  my  poor  friend 
Denier,"  he  remarked.  "  Good  fellow  Denier — always  liked 
Denier.  Stood  by  him  from  the  first — so  did  your  son. — No, 
no,  pardon  me — yes,  to  be  sure — excellent  claret  this — never 
tasted  a  better  luncheon  claret. — But  there  was  a  little  prejudice, 
little  narrowness  of  feeling  about  Denier,  when  he  first  bought 
Grimshott  and  settled  down  here.  Self-made  man,  you  see, 
Denier.  Entirely  self-made.  Father  was  a  clergyman,  I  believe, 
and  I'm  told  his  grandfather  kept  an  umbrella  shop  in  the 
Strand.  But  a  very  able,  right-minded  man  Denier,  and 
wonderfully  good-natured  fellow,  always  willing  to  give  you  an 
opinion  on  a  point  of  law.  Great  advantage  to  have  a  first-rate 
authority  like  that  to  turn  to  in  a  legal  difficulty.  Very  useful  in 
county  business  Denier,  and  laid  hold  of  country  life  wonder- 
fully, understood  the  obligations  of  a  land-owner.  Always  found 
a  fox  in  that  Grimshott  gorse  of  his,  eh,  Knott?" 

"Fox  that  sometimes  wasn't  very  certain  of  his  country,"  the 
doctor  rejoined.  "Hailed  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
umbrella  shop  perhaps,  and  wanted  to  get  home  to  it." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  chuckled. 

"Capital,"  he  said,  "very  good— capital !  Still,  it's  a  great 
relief  to  know  of  a  sure  find  like  that.  Keeps  the  field  in  a 
good  temper.  Yes,  few  men  whose  death  I've  regretted  more  than 
poor  Denier's.  I  miss  Denier.  Not  an  old  man  either.  Shouldn't 
have  let  him  slip  through  your  fingers  so  early,  Knott,  eh?" 

"Oh!  that's  a  (jucstion  of  forestry,"  John  Knott  answered 
grimly,  "If  one  kept  the  old  wood  standing,  where  would  the 
saplings'  chances  come  in  ?" 

"Oh  !  ah  !  yes— never  thought  of  that  In-fore," — and  thinking 
of  it  now  the  nobl<:  lord  became  slightly  [)L'nsive.  "  \Vonder  if 
it's  unfair  my  keeping  Shotover  so  long  out  of  the  property?"  he 


224  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

said  to  himself.  "Amusing  fellow  Shotover,  very  fond  of 
Shot  over — but  extravagant  fellow,  monstrously  extravagant." 

"  Lord  Denier's  death  gave  our  host  here  a  seat  on  the  local 
bench  just  at  the  right  moment,"  the  doctor  went  on.  "One 
man's  loss  is  another  man's  opportunity.  Rather  rough, 
perhaps,  on  the  outgoing  man,  but  then  things  usually  are 
pretty  rough  on  the  outgoing  man  in  my  experience." 

"I  suppose  they  are,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  said,  rather  ruefully, 
his  face  becoming  preternaturally  solemn. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  The  individual  may  get  justice.  I 
hope  he  does.  But  mercy  is  kept  for  special  occasions — few 
and  far  between.  One  must  take  things  on  the  large  scale. 
Then  you  find  they  dovetail  very  neatly,"  Knott  continued,  with 
a  somewhat  sardonic  mirthfulness.  The  simplicity  and  per- 
plexity of  this  handsome,  kindly  gentleman  amused  him  hugely. 
"  But  to  return  to  Lord  Denier — let  alone  my  skill,  that  of  the 
whole  medical  faculty  put  together  couldn't  have  saved  him." 

"  Couldn't  it  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  That's  just  the  bother  with  your  self-made  man.  He  makes 
himself — true.  But  he  spends  himself,  physically,  in  the  making. 
All  his  vitality  goes  in  climbing  the  ladder,  and  he's  none  left 
over  by  the  time  he  reaches  the  top.  Lord  Denier  had  worked 
too  hard  as  a  youngster  to  make  old  bones.  It's  a  long  journey 
from  the  shop  in  the  Strand  to  the  woolsack  you  see,  and  he 
took  silk  at  two-and-thirty  I  believe.  Oh  yes  !  early  death,  or 
premature  decay,  is  the  price  most  outsiders  pay  for  a  great 
professional  success.     Isn't  that  so,  Mr.  Ormiston  ?  " 

But  at  this  juncture  the  conversation  suffered  interruption  by 
the  throwing  open  of  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  Madame  de 
Vallorbes. 

"  Pray  let  no  one  move,"  she  said,  rather  as  issuing  an  order 
than  preferring  a  request — for  her  father.  Lord  Fallowfeild,  all 
the  gentlemen,  had  risen  on  her  appearance — save  Richard. — 
Richard,  his  blue  eyes  ablaze,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  a- 
tremble,  his  heart  going  forth  tumultuously  to  meet  her,  yet  he 
alone  of  all  present  denied  the  little  obvious  act  of  outward 
courtesy  from  man  to  woman. 

"Pinned  to  his  chair,  like  a  specimen  beetle  to  a  collector's 
card,"  John  Knott  said  to  himself.  "  Poor  dear  lad  —  and 
with  that  face  on  him  too.  I  hoped  he  might  have  been 
spared  taking  fire  a  little  longer.  However,  here's  the  con- 
flagration. No  question  about  that.  Now  let's  have  a  look 
at  the  lady." 

And  the  lady,  it  must  be  conceded,  manifested  herself  under 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  225 

a  new  and  somewhat  agitating  aspect,  as  she  swept  up  the  room 
and  into  the  vacant  place  at  Richard's  right  hand  with  a  rush  of 
silken  skirts.  She  produced  a  singular  elfect  at  once  of  energy 
and  self-concentration — her  lips  thin  and  unsmiling,  an  ominous 
vertical  furrow  between  the  spring  of  her  arched  eyebrows,  her 
eyes  narrow,  unresponsive,  severe  with  thought  under  their 
delicate  lids. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  late,  but  it  was  unavoidable.  I  was 
kept  by  some  letters  forwarded  from  Newlands,"  she  said, 
without  giving  herself  the  trouble  of  looking  at  Richard  as  she 
spoke. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  Luncheon's  admittedly  a  moveable 
feast,  isn't  it?" 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  made  no  response.  A  noticeable 
hush  had  descended  upon  the  whole  company,  while  the  men- 
servants  moved  to  and  fro  serving  the  new-comer.  Even  Lady 
Louisa  Barking  ceased  to  hold  high  discourse,  political  or  other, 
and  looked  disapprovingly  across  the  table.  An  hour  earlier  she 
had  resented  the  younger  woman's  merry  wit,  now  she  resented 
her  sublime  indifference.  Both  then  and  now  she  found  her 
perfect  finish  of  appearance  unpardonable.  Lord  Fallowfeild's 
disjointed  conversation  also  suffered  check.  He  fidgeted, 
vaguely  conscious  that  the  atmosphere  had  become  somewhat 
electric. — "Monstrously  pretty  woman — effective  woman — very 
effective  —  rather  dangerous  though.  Changeable  too.  Made 
me  laugh  a  little  too  much  before  luncheon.  Louisa  didn't 
like  it.  Very  correct  views,  my  daughter  Louisa.  Now  seems 
in  a  very  odd  temper.  Quite  the  grand  air,  but  reminds  me  of 
somebody  I've  seen  on  the  stage  somehow.  Suppose  all  that 
comes  of  living  so  much  in  France,"  he  said  to  himself.  But,  for 
the  life  of  him,  he  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say  aloud, 
though  he  felt  it  would  be  eminently  tactful  to  tlirow  in  a  casual 
remark  at  this  juncture.  Little  Lady  Constance  was  disquieted 
likewise.  For  she,  girl-like,  had  fallen  dumbly  and  adoringly  in 
love  with  this  beautiful  stranger  but  a  few  years  her  senior. 
And  now  the  stranger  appeared  as  an  embodiment  of  unknown 
emotions  and  energies  altogether  beyond  tlie  scope  of  her  small 
imagination.  Her  innocent  stare  lost  its  ruminant  quality, 
became  alarmed,  tearful  even,  while  she  instinc  lively  edged  her 
chair  closer  to  her  father's.  There  was  a  great  bcjiid  of  sympathy 
between  the  simple-hearted  gentleman  and  his  youngest  child. 
Mr.  Quayle  looked  on  with  lifted  eyebrows  and  iiis  air  of  amused 
forbearance.  And  Dr.  Knott  looked  on  also,  but  that  which  he 
saw  pleased  him  but  nioderulely.     'I'hc  grace  of  every  movement, 

15 


226  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  distinction  of  face  and  figure,  the  charm  of  that  finely-poised, 
honey-coloured  head  showing  up  against  the  background  of  grey- 
blue,  tapestried  wall,  were  enough — he  owned, — having  a  very 
pretty  taste  in  women  as  well  as  in  horses — to  drive  many  a  man 
crazy. — "  But  if  the  mother's  a  baggage,  the  daughter's  a  vixen," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  And,  upon  my  soul  if  I  had  to  choose 
between  'em — which  God  Almighty  forbid — I'd  take  my  chance 
with  the  baggage."  As  climax  Lady  Calmady's  expression  was 
severe.  She  sat  very  upright,  and  made  no  effort  at  conversa- 
tion. Her  nerves  were  a  little  on  edge.  There  had  been 
awkward  moments  during  this  meal,  and  now  her  niece's 
entrance  struck  her  as  unfortunately  accentuated,  while  there 
was  that  in  Richard's  aspect  which  startled  the  quick  fears  and 
jealousies  of  her  motherhood. 

And  to  Richard  himself,  it  must  be  owned,  this  meeting  so 
hotly  desired,  and  against  the  dangers  of  which  he  had  so  wisely 
guarded,  came  in  fashion  altogether  different  to  that  which  he 
had  pictured.  Helen's  manner  was  cold  to  a  point  far  from 
flattering  to  his  self-esteem.  The  subtle  intimacies  of  the  scene 
in  the  Long  Gallery  became  as  though  they  had  never  been. 
Dickie  thinking  over  his  restless  night,  his  fierce  efforts  at  self- 
conquest,  those  long  hours  in  the  saddle  designed  for  the 
reduction  of  a  perfervid  imagination,  wrote  himself  down 
an  ass  indeed.  And  yet — yet — the  charm  of  Helen's  pres- 
ence was  great !  And  surely  she  wasn't  quite  herself  just  now, 
there  was  something  wrong  with  her?  Anybody  could  see 
that.  Everybody  did  see  it  in  fact,  he  feared,  and  commented 
upon  it  in  no  charitable  spirit.  Hostility  towards  her  declared 
itself  on  every  side.  He  detected  that — or  imagined  he  did  so 
—in  Lady  Louisa's  expression,  in  Ludovic  Quayle's  extra- 
superfine  smile,  in  the  doctor's  close  and  rather  cynical  attitude 
of  observation,  and  last  but  not  least,  in  the  reserve  of  his 
mother's  bearing  and  manner.  And  this  hostility,  real  or 
imagined,  begot  in  Richard  a  new  sensation — one  of  tenderness, 
wholly  unselfish  and  protective,  while  the  fighting  blood  stirred 
in  him.     He  grew  slightly  reckless. 

"What  has  happened?  We  appear  to  have  fallen  most  un- 
accountably silent,"  he  said,  looking  round  the  table,  with  an  air 
of  gallant  challenge  good  to  see. 

"So  we  have,  though,"  exclaimed  Lord  Fallowfeild,  half  in 
relief,  half  in  apology.  "Very  true — was  just  thinking  the  same 
thing  myself." 

While  Mr.  Quayle,  leaning  forward,  inquired  with  much 
sweetness  : — "To  whom  shall  I  talk?     Madame  de  Vallorbes  is 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  227 

far  more  profitably  engaged  in  discussing  her  luncheon,  than  she 
could  be  in  discussing  any  conceivable  topic  of  conversation 
with  such  as  I.  And  Dr.  Knott  is  so  evidently  diagnosing 
an  interesting  case  that  I  have  not  the  effrontery  to  interrupt 
him." 

Disregarding  these  comments  Richard  turned  to  his  neigh- 
bour on  the  left. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Louisa,"  he  said,  "but  before 
this  singular  dumbness  overtook  us  all,  you  were  saying  ?  " — 

The  lady  addressed,  electing  to  accept  this  as  a  tribute  to 
the  knowledge,  the  weight,  and  distinction,  of  her  discourse, 
thawed,  became  condescending  and  gracious  again. 

"I  believe  we  were  discussing  the  prospects  of  the  party, '^ 
she  replied.  "  I  was  saying  that,  you  know,  of  course  there 
must  be  a  large  Liberal  majority." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"You  consider  that  assured?"  Julius  put  in  civilly. 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  personal  opinion,  I  am  thankful  to  say 
• — because  of  course  everyone  must  feel  it  is  just  everything  for 
the  country.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  about  the  majority  among 
those  who  really  know— Mr.  Barking,  for  instance.  Nobody 
can  be  in  a  better  position  to  judge  than  he  is.  And  then 
I  was  speaking  the  other  night  to  Augustus  Tremiloe  at  Lord 
Combmartin's — not  William,  you  know,  but  Augustus  Tremiloe, 
the  man  in  the  Treasury,  and  he" — 

"  Uncommonly  fine  chrysanthemums  those,"  Lord  Fallowfeild 
had  broken  forth  cheerfully,  finding  sufficient,  if  tardy,  inspiration 
in  the  table  decorations.  "Remarkably  perfect  blossoms  and 
charming  colour.  Nothing  nearly  so  good  at  Whitney  this 
autumn.  Excellent  fellow  my  head-gardener,  but  rather  past 
his  work  —  no  enterprise,  can't  make  him  go  in  for  new 
ideas." 

Mr.  Ormiston,  leaning  across   Dr.  Knott,   addressed  himself 
to  Ludovic,  while  casting  occasional  and  rather  anxious  glances 
upon  his  daughter.     Thus  did  voices  rise,  mingle,  and  the  talk 
get  fairly  upon  its  legs  again.     Then  Richard  permitted  himself 
to  say  quietly  : — 

"You  had  no  bad  news,  I  hope,  in  those  letters,  Helen?" 

"Why  should  you  suppose  I  have  had  had  news?"  she 
demanded,  her  teeth  meeting  viciously  in  the  morsel  of  kissing- 
crust  she  held  in  her  rosy-tipped  fingers. 

It  was  as  pretty  as  a  game  to  sec  her  eat.  Dickie  laughed 
a  little,  charmed  even  with  her  naughtiness,  embarrassed  too  by 
the  directness  of  her  (|U(jstion. 


228  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  exactly  know  why — I  thought  perhaps  you 
seemed  " — 

"You  do  know  quite  exactly  why,"  the  young  lady  asserted, 
looking  full  at  him.  "  You  saw  that  I  was  in  a  detestable,  a 
diabolic  temper." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did  think  I  saw  something  of  the  sort," 
Richard  answered  audaciously,  yet  very  gently. 

Helen  continued  to  look  at  him,  and  as  she  did  so  her  cheek 
rounded,  her  mouth  grew  soft,  the  vertical  line  faded  out  from 
her  forehead. — "You  are  very  assuaging,  cousin  Richard,"  she 
said,  and  she  too  laughed  softly. 

"  Understands  the  vineries  very  well  though,"  Lord  Fallow- 
feild  was  saying,  "and  doesn't  grow  bad  peaches,  not  at  all 
bad  peaches,  but  is  stupid  about  flowers.  He  ought  to  retire. 
Never  shall  have  really  satisfactory  gardens  till  he  does  retire. 
And  yet  I  haven't  the  heart  to  tell  him  to  go.  Good  fellow, 
you  know,  good,  honest,  hard-working  fellow,  and  had  a  lot  of 
trouble.  Wife  ailing  for  years,  always  ailing,  and  youngest  child 
got  hip  disease — nasty  thing  hip  disease,  very  nasty — quite  a 
cripple,  poor  little  creature,  I  am  afraid  a  hopeless  cripple. 
Terrible  anxiety  and  burden  for  parents  in  that  rank  of  life, 
you  know." 

"  It  can  hardly  be  otherwise  in  any  rank  of  life,"  Lady 
Calmady  said  slowly,  bitterly.  An  immense  weariness  was  upon 
her  —  weariness  of  the  actual  and  present,  weariness  of  the 
possible  and  the  future.  Her  courage  ebbed.  She  longed  to 
go  away,  to  be  alone  for  a  while,  to  shut  eyes  and  ears,  to 
deaden  alike  perception  and  memory,  to  have  it  all  cease. 
Then  it  was  as  though  those  two  beautiful,  and  now  laughing, 
faces  of  man  and  woman  in  the  glory  of  their  youth,  seen  over 
the  perspective  of  fair,  white  damask,  glittering  glass  and 
silver,  rich  dishes,  graceful  profusion  of  flowers  and  fruit,  at 
the  far  end  of  the  avenue  of  guests,  mocked  at  her.  Did  they 
not  mock  at  the  essential  conditions  of  their  own  lives  too? 
Katherine  feared,  consciously  or  unconsciously  they  did  that. 
Her  weariness  dragged  upon  her  with  almost  despairing  weight. 

"Do  you  get  your  papers  the  same  day  here.  Sir  Richard  ? " 
Lady  Louisa  asked  imperatively. 

"Yes,  they  come  with  the  second  post  letters,  about  five 
o'clock,"  Julius  March  answered. 

But  Lady  Louisa  Barking  intended  to  be  attended  to  by 
lier  host. 

"Sir  Richard,"  she  paused,  "I  am  asking  whether  your 
papers  reach  you  the  same  day  ?  " 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  229 

And  Dickie  replied  he  knew  not  what,  for  he  had  just 
registered  the  discovery  that  barriers  are  quite  useless  against  a 
certain  sort  of  intimacy.  Be  the  crowd  never  so  thick  about 
you,  in  a  sense  at  least,  you  are  always  alone,  exquisitely^ 
delicately  alone  with  the  person  you  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

RICHARD    PUTS    HIS    HAND    TO    A    PLOUGH    FROM    WHICH 
THERE    IS    NO    TURNING    BACK 


"  "T^  BAREST  mother,  you  look  most  deplorably  tired." 

J__y  Richard  sat  before  the  large  study  table,  piled  up 
with  letters,  papers,  county  histories,  racing  calendars,  in  the 
Ciun-Room,  amid  a  haze  of  cigar  smoke. — "I  don't  wonder,"  he 
went  on,  "  we've  had  a  regular  field-day,  haven't  we  ?  And  I'm 
afraid  Lord  Fallowfeild  bored  you  atrociously  at  luncheon.  He 
does  talk  most  admired  foolishness  half  his  time,  poor  old 
boy.  AH  the  same  Ludovic  shouldn't  show  him  up  as  he  does. 
It's  not  good  form.  I'm  afraid  Ludovic's  getting  rather  spoilt  by 
London.  He's  growing  altogether  too  finicking  and  elaborate. 
It's  a  pity.  Lady  Louisa  Barking  is  a  rather  exterminating 
person.  Her  conversation  is  magnificently  deficient  in  humour. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  Barking  is  not  troubled  by  lively  perceptions, 
or  he  must  suffer  at  times.  Lady  Constance  is  a  pretty  little 
girl,  don't  you  think  so?  Not  oppressed  with  brains,  I  daresay,, 
but  a  good  little  sort." 

"You  liked  her?"  Katherinc  said.  She  stood  beside  him,. 
that  mortal  weariness  upon  her  yet. 

"  Oh  yes ! — well  enough — liked  her  in  passing,  as  one  likes 
the  wild  roses  in  the  hedge.  But  you  look  regularly  played  out, 
mother,  and  I  don't  like  that  in  the  least." 

Richard  twisted  the  revolving-chair  half  round,  and  held  out 
his  arms  in  invitation.  As  his  mother  leaned  over  him,  he 
stretched  u[)ward  and  clasped  his  hands  lightly  about  her  neck. — 
"  Poor  dear,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "worn  to  fiddle-strings  with  all 
this  wild  dissipation  !  I  declare  it's  quite  pathetic." — He  let 
her  go,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  a  sigh  and  a  half  laugh. 
"Well,  the  dissipation  will  soon  enough  be  over  now,  and  we 
shall  resume  the  even  tenor  of  our  way,  I  suppose.  You'll  be 
glad  of  that,  mother?" 

The  caress  had  been  grateful   to   Katherinc,  the  cool  cheek 


230  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

dear  to  her  lips,  the  clasp  of  the  strong  arms  reassuring.  Yet, 
in  her  present  state  of  depression,  she  was  inclined  to  distrust 
even  that  which  consoled,  and  there  seemed  a  lack  in  the 
fervour  of  this  embrace.  Was  it  not  just  a  trifle  perfunctory, 
as  of  one  who  pays  toll,  rather  than  of  one  who  claims  a 
jDrivilege  ? 

"  You'll  be  glad  too,  my  dearest,  I  trust  ?  "  she  said,  craving 
further  encouragement. 

Richard  twisted  the  chair  back  into  place  again,  leaned 
forward  to  note  the  hour  of  the  clock  set  in  the  centre  of  the 
gold  and  enamel  inkstand. 

"  Oh !  I'm  not  prophetic.  I  don't  pretend  to  go  before  the 
event  and  register  my  sensations  until  both  they  and  I  have 
fairly  arrived.  It's  awfully  bad  economy  to  get  ahead  of  your- 
self and  live  in  the  day  after  to-morrow.  To-day's  enough — 
more  than  enough  for  you,  I'm  afraid,  when  you've  had  a  large 
contingent  of  the  Whitney  people  to  luncheon.  Do  go  and 
rest,  mother.  Uncle  William  is  disposed  of.  I've  started  him 
out  for  a  tramp  with  Julius,  so  you  need  not  have  him  on  your 
mind." 

But  neither  in  Richard's  words  nor  in  his  manner  did  Lady 
Calmady  find  the  fulness  of  assurance  she  craved. 

"Thanks,  dearest,"  she  said.  "That  is  very  thoughtful  of 
you.     I  will  see  Helen  and  find  out" — 

"  Oh !  don't  trouble  about  her  either,"  Richard  put  in. 
Again  he  studied  the  jewel-rimmed  dial  of  the  little  clock.  "  I 
found  she  wanted  to  go  to  Newlands  to  bid  Mrs.  Cathcart 
good-bye.  It  seems  Miss  St.  Quentin  is  back  there  for  a  day 
or  two.  So  I  promised  to  drive  her  over  as  soon  as  we  were 
quit  of  the  Fallowfeild  party." 

"  It  is  late  for  so  long  a  drive." 

Richard  looked  up  quickly  and  his  face  wore  that  expression 
of  challenge  once  again. 

"  I  know  it  is — and  so  I  am  afraid  we  ought  to  start  at 
once.  I  expect  the  carriage  round  immediately." — Then  re- 
penting : — "  You'll  take  care  of  yourself,  won't  you,  mother,  and 
rest  ? ' 

"  Oh  yes !  I  will  take  care  of  myself,"  Katherine  said. 
"  Indeed,  I  appear  to  be  the  only  person  I  have  left  to  take 
care  of,  thanks  to  your  forethought.  All  good  go  with  you, 
Dick." 

It  followed  —  perhaps  unreasonably  enough  —  that  Richard, 
some  five  minutes  later,  drove  round  the  angle  of  the 
house    and    drew   the    mail-phaeton    up    at    the    foot    of   the 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  231 

grey,  griffin-guarded  flight  of  steps  —  whereon  IMadame  de 
Vallorbes,  wrapped  in  furs,  the  cavaUer  hat  and  its  trailing 
plumes  shadowing  the  upper  part  of  her  face  and  her  bright 
hair,  awaited  his  coming — in  a  rather  defiant  humour.  His 
cousin  was  troubled,  worried,  and  she  met  with  scant  sympathy. 
This  aroused  all  his  chivalry.  Whatever  she  wished  for,  that 
he  could  give  her,  she  should  very  certainly  have.  Of  after 
consequences  to  himself  he  was  contemptuous.  The  course 
of  action  which  had  shown  as  wisdom  a  couple  of  hours  ago, 
showed  now  as  selfishness  and  pusillanimity.  If  she  wanted 
him,  he  was  there  joyfully  to  do  her  bidding,  at  whatever 
cost  to  himself  in  subsequent  unrest  of  mind  seemed  but  a 
small  thing.  If  heartache  and  insidious  provocations  of  the 
flesh  came  later,  let  them  come.  He  was  strong  enough  to 
bear  the  one  and  crush  out  the  other,  he  hoped.  It  would 
give  him  something  to  do — he  told  himself,  a  little  bitterly — 
and  he  had  been  idle  of  late ! 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Richard  Calmady  held  out  his 
hand,  to  help  his  cousin  into  her  place  at  his  side,  with  more  of 
meaning  and  welcome  in  the  gesture  than  he  was  quite  aware. 
He  forgot  the  humiliation  of  the  broad  strap  about  his  waist,  of 
the  high,  ingeniously  contrived  driving-iron  against  which  his  feet 
rested,  steadying  him  upon  the  sharply  sloping  seat.  These  were 
details,  objectionable  ones  it  was  true,  but,  to-day,  of  very  second- 
ary importance.  In  the  main  he  was  master  of  the  situation.  For 
once  it  was  his  to  render,  rather  than  receive,  assistance.  Helen 
was  under  his  care,  in  a  measure  dependent  on  him,  and  this 
gratified  his  young,  masculine  pride,  doomed  too  often  to  suffer 
sharp  mortification.  A  fierce  pleasure  possessed  him.  It  was 
fine  to  bear  her  thus  away,  behind  the  fast  trotting  horses, 
through  the  pensive,  autumn  brightness.  Boyish  self-conscious- 
ness and  self-  distrust  died  down  in  Richard,  and  the  man's 
self-reliance,  instinct  of  possession  and  of  authority,  grew  in 
him.  His  tone  was  that  of  command,  for  all  its  solicitude,  as  he 
said :  — 

"  Look  here,  are  you  sure  you've  got  enough  on  ?  Don't  go 
and  catch  cold,  under  the  impression  that  there's  any  meaning  in 
this  sunshine.  It  is  sure  to  be  chilly  driving  home,  and  its  easy 
to  take  more  wraf)S." 

Helen  shook  her  head,  unsmiling,  serious. 

"  I  could  face  polar  snows." 

Richard  let  the  horses  spring  forward,  while  little  pebbles 
rattled  against  the  body  of  the  phaeton,  and  the  groom,  running  a 
few  steps,  swung  himself  up  on  to  the  back  seat,  immediately 


252  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

becoming  immoveable  as  a  wooden  image,  with  rigidly  folded 
arms. 

"  Oh  !  the  cold  won't  quite  amount  to  that,"  Richard  said. 
'•  "Rut  I  observe  women  rarely  reckon  with  the  probabilities  of 
the  return  journey." 

"The  return  journey  is  invariably  too  hot,  or  too  cold,  too 
soon,  or  too  late — for  a  woman.  So  it  is  better  not  to  re- 
member its  existence  until  you  are  compelled  to  do  so.  For 
myself,  I  confess  to  the  strongest  prejudice  against  the  return 
journey." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes'  speech  was  calm  and  measured,  yet 
there  was  a  conviction  in  it  suggestive  of  considerable  emotion. 
She  sat  well  back  in  the  carriage,  her  head  turned  slightly  to  the 
left,  so  that  Richard,  looking  down  at  her,  saw  little  but  the  pure, 
firm  line  of  her  jaw,  the  contour  of  her  cheek,  and  her  ear — small, 
lovely,  the  soft  hair  curling  away  from  above  and  behind  it  in 
the  most  enticing  fashion.  Physical  perfection,  of  necessity, 
provoked  in  him  a  peculiar  envy  and  delight.  And  nature 
appeared  to  have  taken  ingenious  pleasure,  not  only  in  conferring 
an  unusual  degree  of  beauty  upon  his  companion,  but  in  finish- 
ing each  detail  of  her  person  with  unstinted  grace.  For  a  while 
the  young  man  lost  himself  in  contemplation  of  that  charming 
ear  and  partially  averted  face.  Then  resolutely  he  bestowed  his 
attention  upon  the  horses  again,  finding  such  contemplation 
slightly  enervating  to  his  moral  sense. 

"  Yes,  return  journeys  are  generally  rather  a  nuisance,  I 
suppose,"  he  said,  "  though  my  experience  of  that  particular 
form  of  nuisance  is  limited.  I  have  not  been  outward-bound 
often  enough  to  know  much  of  the  regret  of  being  homeward- 
bound.  And  yet,  I  own,  I  should  not  much  mind  driving  on 
and  on  everlastingly  on  a  dreamy  afternoon  like  this,  and — and 
as  I  find  myself  just  now — driving  on  and  seeking  some  El 
Dorado — of  the  spirit,  I  mean,  not  of  the  pocket — seeking  the 
Fortunate  Isles  that  lie  beyond  the  sunset.  For  it  would  be  not 
a  little  fascinating  to  give  one's  accustomed  self,  and  all  that  goes 
to  make  up  one's  accepted  identity,  the  slip — to  drive  clean  out  of 
one's  old  circumstances  and  find  new  heavens,  a  new  earth,  and 
a  new  personality  elsewhere.  What  do  you  say,  Helen,  shall  we 
try  it  ?  " 

But  Helen  sat  immobile,  her  face  averted,  listening  intently, 
revolving  many  things  in  her  mind,  meditating  how  and  when 
most  advantageously  to  speak. 

"  It  would  be  such  an  amiable  and  graceful  experiment  to 
try  on  my  own  people,  too,  wouldn't  it  ?  "  the  young  man  con- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  233 

tinued,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone.  "  And  I  am  so  eminently 
fitted  to  lose  myself  in  a  crowd  without  fear  of  recognition,  just 
the  person  for  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  ! " 

"  Do  not  say  such  things,  Richard,  please.  They  distress 
me,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  put  in  quickly.  "  And,  believe  me, 
I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  return  journey  in  this  case.  At 
Erockhurst  I  could  fancy  myself  to  have  found  the  Fortunate 
Isles  of  which  you  spoke  just  now.  I  have  been  very  happy 
there — too  happy,  perhaps,  and  therefore,  to-day,  the  whip  has 
come  down  across  my  back,  just  to  remind  me." 

"  Ah  !  now  you  say  the  painful  things,"  Dick  interrupted. 
"  Pray  don't— I— I  don't  like  them." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
with  the  strangest  expression. 

"  My  metaphor  was  not  out  of  place.  Do  you  imagine 
horses  are  the  only  animals  a  man  drives,  tnon  beau  cousin  ? 
Some  men  drive  the  woman  who  belongs  to  them,  and  that 
not  with  the  lightest  bit,  I  promise  you.  Nor  do  they 
forget  to  tie  blood-knots  in  the  whip-lash  when  it  suits  them  to 
do  so." 

"^\'hat  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Merely  that  the  letters,  which  so  stupidly  endangered  my  self- 
control  at  luncheon,  contained  examples  of  that  kind  of  driving." 

"  How — how  damnable,"  the  young  man  said  between  his 
teeth. 

The  red  and  purple  trunks  of  the  great  fir  trees  reeled 
away  to  right  and  left  as  the  carriage  swept  forward  down  the 
long  avenue.  To  Richard's  seeing  they  reeled  away  in  disgust, 
even  as  did  his  thought  from  the  images  which  his  companion's 
words  suggested.  While,  to  her  seeing,  they  reeled,  smitten  by 
the  eternal  laughter,  the  echoes  of  which  it  stimulated  her  to 
hear.  —  "The  drama  develops,"  she  said  to  herself,  half 
triumphant,  half  abashed.  "And  yet  I  am  telling  the  truth,  it 
is  all  so — I  hardly  even  doctor  it." — For  she  had  been  angered, 
genuinely  and  miserably  angered,  and  had  found  that  odious  to 
the  point  of  letting  feeling  override  diplomacy.  There  was 
subtle  pleasure  in  now  turning  her  very  lapse  of  self-control  to 
her  own  advantage.  And  then,  this  young  man's  heart  was  the 
finest,  purest-toned  instrument  upon  wliich  she  had  ever  had  the 
chance  to  play  as  yet.  She  was  ravished  by  the  (lualily  and 
range  of  the  music  it  gave  forth.  Madame  de  Vallorbes  pressed 
her  hands  together  within  the  warm  comfort  of  her  sable  muff, 
averted  her  face  again,  lest  it  should  betray  the  eager  excitement 
that  gained  on  her,  and  continued  :  — 


234  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Yes,  whip  and  rein  and  bit  arc  hardly  pretty  in  that  con- 
nection, are  they  ?  If  you  would  willingly  give  your  identity  the 
slip  at  times,  dear  cousin,  I  have  considerably  deeper  cause  to 
wish  to  part  company  with  mine  !  You,  in  any  case,  are  morally 
and  materially  free.  A  whole  class  of  particularly  irritating  and 
base  cares  can  never  approach  you.  And  it  was  in  connection 
with  just  such  cares  that  I  spoke  of  the  hatefulness  of  return 
journeys." 

Helen  paused,  as  one  making  an  effort  to  maintain  her 
equanimity. 

"My  letters  recall  me  to  Paris,"  she  said,  "where  detestable 
scenes  and  most  ignoble  anxieties  await  me." 

"  How  soon  must  you  go?" 

"That  is  what  I  ask  myself," she  said,  in  the  same  quiet,  even 
voice.  "  I  have  not  yet  arrived  at  a  decision,  and  so  I  asked 
you  to  bring  me  out,  IJickie,  this  afternoon." — She  looked  up  at 
him,  smiling,  lovely  and  with  a  certain  wistful  dignity,  wholly 
coercive.  "  Can  you  understand  that  the  orderly  serenity  of 
your  splendid  house  became  a  little  oppressive?  It  offered 
too  glaring  a  contrast  to  my  own  state  of  mind  and  out- 
look. I  fancied  my  brain  would  be  clearer,  my  conclusions 
more  just,  here  out  of  doors,  face  to  face  with  this  half-savage 
nature." 

"Ah,  I  know  all  that,"  Richard  said.  Had  not  the  blankness 
of  the  fog  brought  him  help  this  very  morning? — "I  know  it, 
but  I  wish  you  did  not  know  it  too." 

"  I  know  many  things  better  not  known,"  Helen  replied. 
Her  conscience  pricked  her.  She  thanked  her  stars  confession 
had  ceased  with  enlargement  from  the  convent-school,  and  was  a 
thing  of  the  past. — "  You  see,  I  want  to  decide  just  how  long  I 
dare  stay — if  you  will  keep  me  ?  " 

"We  will  keep  you,"  Richard  said. 

"You  are  very  charming  to  me,  Dick,"  she  exclaimed  im- 
pulsively, sincerely,  again  slightly  abashed.  "How  long  can  I 
dare  stay,  I  wonder,  without  making  matters  worse  in  the  end, 
both  for  my  father  and  for  myself?  I  am  young,  after  all,  and  I 
suppose  I  am  tough.  The  cuticle  of  the  soul — if  souls  can  have 
a  cuticle — like  that  of  the  body,  thickens  under  repeated  blows. 
But  my  father  is  no  longer  young.  He  is  terribly  sensitive  where 
I  am  concerned.  And  he  is  inevitably  drawn  into  the  whirlpool 
of  my  wretched  affairs  sooner  or  later.  On  his  account  I  should 
be  glad  to  defer  the  return  journey  as  long" — 

"  But — but — I  don't  understand,"  Richard  broke  out,  pity  and 
deep  concern  for  her,  a  blind  fury  against  a  person,  or  persons 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I 


unknown,  getting  the  better  of  him.  "Who  on  earth  has  the 
power  to  plague  you  and  make  you  miserable,  or  your  father 
either  ?  " 

The  young  man's  face  was  white,  his  eyes,  full  of  pain,  full  of 
a  great  love,  burning  down  on  her.  As  once  long  ago,  Helen  de 
Vallorbes  could  have  danced  and  clapped  her  hands  in  naughty 
glee.  For  her  hunting  had  prospered  above  her  fondest  hopes. 
She  had  much  ado  to  stifle  the  laughter  which  bubbled  up  in 
her  pretty  throat.  She  was  in  the  humour  to  pelt  peacocks 
royally,  had  such  pastime  been  possible.  As  it  was,  she  closed 
her  eyes  for  a  little  minute  and  waited,  biting  the  inside  of  her 
lip.     At  last,  she  said  slowly,  almost  solemnly  :  — 

"  Don't  you  know  that  for  certain  mistakes,  and  those  usually 
the  most  generous,  there  is  no  redress  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"Mean? — the  veriest  commonplace  in  my  own  case,"  she 
answered.  "  Merely  an  unhappy  marriage.  There  are  thousands 
such." 

They  had  left  the  shadow  of  the  fir  woods  now.  The  carriage 
crossed  the  white-railed  culvert — bridging  the  little  stream  that 
taking  its  rise  amid  the  pink  and  emerald  mosses  of  the  peat- 
bog, meanders  down  the  valley — and  entered  the  oak  plantation 
just  inside  the  park  gate.  Russet  leaves  in  rustling,  hurrying 
companies,  fied  up  and  away  from  the  rapidly  turning  wheels  and 
quick  horse  hoofs.  The  sunshine  was  wan  and  chill  as  the  smile 
on  a  dead  face.  Lines  of  pale,  lilac  cloud — shaped  like  those 
flights  of  cranes  which  decorate  the  oriental  cabinets  of  the  Long 
Gallery — crossed  the  western  sky  above  the  bare,  balsam  poplars, 
the  cluster  of  ancient,  half-timbered  cottages  at  the  entrance  to 
Sandyfield  church  lane,  and  the  rise  of  the  grey-brown  fallow 
beyond,  where  sheep  moved,  bleating  plaintively,  within  a  wattled 
fold. 

The  scene,  altogether  familiar  though  it  was,  impressed  itself 
on  Richard's  mind  just  now,  as  one  of  paralysing  melancholy. 
God  help  us,  what  a  stricken,  famished  world  it  is  !  Will  you  not 
always  find  sorrow  and  misfortune  seated  at  the  root  of  things  if, 
disregarding  overlaying  prcttiness  of  summer  days,  of  green  leaf 
and  gay  blossom,  you  dare  draw  near,  dig  deep,  look  close? 
And  can  nothing,  no  one,  escape  the  blighting  touch  of  that 
canker  stationed  at  the  very  foundations  of  being?  Certainly  it 
would  seem  not — Richard  reasoned — listening  to  the  words  of 
the  radiant  woman  beside  him,  ordained,  in  right  of  her  talent 
and  puissant  grace,  to  be  a  queen  and  idol  of  men.  For  sadder 
than  the  thin  sunshine,  bare  trees  and  complaint  of  the  hungry 


236  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sheep,  was  that  assured  declaration  that  loveless  and  unlovely 
marriages — of  which  her  own  was  one — exist  by  the  thousand, 
are,  indeed,  the  veriest  commonplace  ! 

These  reflections  held  Richard,  since  he  had  been  thinker 
and  poet — in  his  degree — since  childhood ;  lover  only  during  the 
brief  space  of  these  last  ten  surprising  days.  Thus  the  general 
application  claimed  his  attention  first.  But  hard  on  the  heels  of 
this  followed  the  personal  application.  For,  as  is  the  way  of  all 
true  lovers,  the  universality  of  the  law  under  which  it  takes  its 
rise  mitigates,  by  most  uncommonly  little,  either  the  joy  or  sorrow 
of  the  particular  case.  Poignant  regret  that  she  suffered,  strong 
admiration  that  she  bore  suffering  so  adherent  with  such  lightness 
of  demeanour — then,  more  dangerous  than  these,  a  sense  of 
added  unlooked-for  nearness  to  her,  and  a  resultant  calling  not 
merely  of  the  spirit  of  youth  in  him  to  that  same  spirit  resident 
in  her,  but  the  deeper,  more  compelling,  more  sonorous  call  from 
the  knowledge  of  tragedy  in  him  to  that  same  terrible  knowledge 
now  first  made  evident  in  her. — And  here  Richard's  heart — in 
spite  of  pity,  in  spite  of  tenderness  which  would  have  borne  a 
hundred  miseries  to  save  her  five  minutes'  discomfort — sang  Te 
Deum,  and  that  lustily  enough  !  For  by  this  revelation  of  the  in- 
felicity of  her  state,  his  whole  relation  to,  and  duty  towards  her 
changed  and  took  on  a  greater  freedom.  To  pour  forth  worship 
and  offers  of  service  at  the  feet  of  a  happy  woman  is  at  once  an 
impertinence  to  her  and  a  shame  to  yourself.  But  to  pour  forth 
such  worship,  such  offers  of  service,  at  the  feet  of  an  unhappy 
woman  —  age-old  sophistry,  so  often  ruling  the  speech  and 
actions  of  men  to  their  fatal  undoing  !  — this  is  praiseworthy  and 
legitimate,  a  matter  not  of  privilege  merely,  but  of  obligation  to 
whoso  would  claim  to  be  truly  chivalrous. 

The  perception  of  his  larger  liberty,  and  the  consequences 
following  thereon,  kept  Richard  silent  till  Sandyfield  rectory,  the 
squat-towered,  Georgian  church  and  the  black-headed,  yew  trees 
in  the  close-packed  churchyard  adjoining,  the  neighbouring  farm 
and  its  goodly  show  of  golden-grey  wheat-ricks  were  left  behind, 
and  the  carriage  entered  on  the  flat,  furze-dotted  expanse  of 
Sandyfield  common.  Flocks  of  geese,  arising  from  damp  repose 
upon  the  ragged,  autumn  turf,  hissed  forth  futile  declarations  of 
war.  A  gipsy  caravan  painted  in  staring  colours,  and  hung  all 
over  with  heath-brooms  and  basket-chairs,  caused  the  horses  to 
swerve.  Parties  of  home-going  school-children  backed  on  to  the 
loose  gravel  at  the  roadside,  bobbing  curtsies  or  pulling  forelocks, 
staring  at  the  young  man  and  his  companion,  curious  and  half 
afraid.     For,  in  the  youthful,  bucolic  mind,  a  mystery  surrounded 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  237 

Richard  Calmady  and  his  goings  and  comings,  causing  him  to 
rank  with  crowned  heads,  ghosts,  the  Book  of  Daniel,  funerals, 
the  Northern  Lights,  and  kindred  matters  of  dread  fascination. 
So  wondering  eyes  pursued  him  down  the  road. 

And  wondering  eyes,  as  the  minutes  passed,  glanced  up  at 
him  from  beneath  the  sweeping  plumes  and  becoming  shadow  of 
the  cavalier's  hat.  For  his  prolonged  silence  rendered  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  anxious.  Had  she  spoken  unadvisedly  with  her 
tongue?  Had  her  words  sounded  crude  and  of  questionable 
delicacy  ?  Given  his  antecedents  and  upbringing,  Richard  was 
bound  to  hold  the  marriage  tie  in  rather  superstitious  reverence, 
and  was  likely  to  entertain  slightly  superannuated  views  regarding 
the  obligation  of  reticence  in  the  discussion  of  family  matters. 
She  feared  she  had  reckoned  insufficiently  with  all  this,  in  her 
eagerness,  forgetting  subtle  diplomacies.  Her  approach  had 
lacked  tact  and  finesse.  In  dealing  with  an  adversary  of  coarser 
fibre  her  attack  would  have  succeeded  to  admiration.  But  this 
man  was  refined  and  sensitive  to  a  fault,  easily  disgusted,  narrowly 
critical  in  questions  of  taste. 

Therefore  she  glanced  up  at  him  again,  trying  to  divine  his 
thought,  her  own  mind  in  a  tumult  of  opposing  purposes  and 
desires.  And  just  as  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty  had  so 
deeply  stirred  him  earlier  this  same  afternoon,  so  did  the  con- 
templation of  his  beauty  now  stir  her.  It  satisfied  her  artistic 
sense.  Save  that  the  nose  was  straighter  and  shorter,  the  young 
man  reminded  her  notably  of  a  certain  antique,  terra-cotta  head 
of  the  young  Alexander  which  she  had  once  seen  in  a  museum  at 
Munich,  and  which  had  left  an  ineffaceable  impression  upon  her 
memory.  But,  the  face  of  the  young  Alexander  beside  her  was  of 
nobler  moral  quality  than  that  other — undebauched  by  feasts  and 
licentious  pleasures  as  yet,  masculine  yet  temperate,  the  sanctuary 
of  generous  ambitions.  Merciless  it  might  be,  she  fancied,  but 
never  base,  never  weak.  Thus  was  her  artistic  sense  satisfied, 
morally  as  well  as  physically.  Her  social  sense  was  satisfied  also. 
For  the  young  man's  high-breeding  could  not  be  called  in 
question.  He  held  himself  remarkably  well.  She  approved  the 
cut  of  his  clothes  moreover,  his  sure  and  easy  handling  of  the 
spirited  horses. 

And  then  her  eyes,  following  down  the  lines  of  the  fur  rug, 
received  renewed  assurance  of  the  fact  of  his  deformity — hidden 
as  far  as  might  be,  with  decent  pride,  yet  there,  permanent  and 
unalterable.  This  worked  uj)on  her  slron:;ly.  For,  to  her 
peculiar  temperament,  the  indissoluble  union  in  one  body  01 
elements  so  noble  and  so  monstrous,  of  youthful  vigour  and 


238  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

abject  helplessness,  the  grotesque  in  short,  supplied  the  last  word 
of  sensuous  and  dramatic  attraction.  As  last  evening,  in  the 
Long  Gallery,  so  now,  she  hugged  herself,  at  once  frightened  and 
fascinated,  wrought  upon  by  excitement  as  in  the  presence  of 
something  akin  to  the  supernatural,  and  altogether  beyond  the 
confines  of  ordinary  experience. 

And  to  think  that  she  had  come  so  near  holding  this  inimit- 
able creature  in  her  hand,  and  by  overhaste,  or  clumsiness  of 
statement  should  lose  it !  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  wild  with 
irritation,  racked  her  brain  for  means  to  recover  her — as  she 
feared — forfeited  position.  It  would  be  maddening  did  her 
mighty  hunting  prove  but  a  barren  pastime  in  the  end.  And 
thereupon  the  little  scar  on  her  temple,  deftly  concealed  under 
the  soft,  bright  hair,  began  to  smart  and  throb.  Ah  !  well,  the 
hunting  should  not  prove  quite  barren  anyhow,  of  that  she  was 
determined,  for,  failing  her  late  gay  purpose,  that  small  matter  of 
long-deferred  revenge  still  remained  in  reserve.  If  she  could 
not  gratify  one  passion,  she  would  gratify  quite  another.  For  in 
this  fair  lady's  mind  it  was — perhaps  unfortunately — but  one 
step  from  the  Eden  bowers  of  love  to  the  waste  places  of 
vindictive  hate. — "Yet  I  would  rather  be  good  to  him,  far 
rather,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  movement  of  quite  pathetic 
sincerity. 

But  here,  just  at  the  entrance  to  the  village  street,  an  al- 
together unconscious  deus  ex  machbia — destined  at  once  to 
relieve  Helen  of  further  anxiety,  and  commit  poor  Dickie  to  a 
course  of  action  affecting  the  whole  of  his  subsequent  career — 
presented  itself  in  the  shape  of  a  white-tented  miller's  waggon, 
which,  with  somnolent  jingle  of  harness  bells  and  most  admired 
deliberation,  moved  down  the  centre  of  the  road.  A  yellow- 
washed  garden-wall  on  one  side,  the  brook  on  the  other,  there 
was  not  room  for  the  phaeton  to  pass. 

"Whistle,"  Richard  commanded  over  his  shoulder.  And 
the  wooden  image,  thereby  galvanised  into  immediate  activity, 
whistled  shrilly,  but  without  result  as  far  as  the  waggon  was 
concerned. 

"The  fellow's  asleep.  Go  and  tell  him  to  pull  out  of  the 
way." 

Then,  while  the  groom  ran  neatly  forward  in  twinkling,  white 
breeches  and  flesh-coloured  tops,  Richard,  bending  towards 
her,  as  far  as  that  controlling  strap  about  his  waist  permitted, 
shifted  the  reins  into  his  right  hand  and  laid  his  left  upon 
Madame  de  Vallorbes'  sable  muff. 

"Look  here,  Helen,"  he  said,  rather  hoarsely,  "I  am  inde- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  239 

scribably  shocked  at  what  you  have  just  told  me.  I  supposed  it 
was  all  so  different  with  you.  I'd  no  suspicion  of  this.  And — 
and — if  I  may  say  so,  you've  taught  me  a  lesson  which  has  gone 
home — steady  there — steady,  good  lass  " — for  the  horses  danced 
and  snorted. — "  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  grumble  much  in 
future  about  troubles  of  my  own,  having  seen  how  splendidly 
you  bear  yours.  Only  I  can't  agree  with  you  no  remedy  is 
possible  for  generous  mistakes.  The  world  isn't  quite  so  badly 
made  as  all  that.  There  is  a  remedy  for  every  mistake  except — 
a  few  physical  ones,  which  we  euphuistically  describe  as  visitations 
of  God. — Steady,  steady  there — wait  a  bit. — And  I — I  tell  you 
I  can't  sit  down  under  this  unhappiness  of  yours  and  just  put 
up  with  it.  Don't  think  me  a  meddling  fool,  please.  Some- 
thing's got  to  be  done.  I  know  I  probably  appear  to  you  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  be  of  use.  And  yet  I'm  not  sure 
about  that.  I  have  time — too  much  of  it — ai.d  I'm  not  quite 
an  ass.  And  you — you  must  know,  I  think,  there's  nothing  in 
heaven  or  earth  I  would  not  do  for  you  that  I  could  " — 

The  miller  hauled  his  slow-moving  team  aside,  with  beery- 
thick  objurgations  and  apologies.  The  groom  swung  himself  up 
at  the  back  of  the  carriage  again.  The  impatient  horses,  getting 
their  heads,  swung  away  down  Sandyfield  Street — scattering  a 
litter  of  merry,  little,  black  pigs  and  many  remonstrant  fowls  to 
right  and  left — past  modest  village  shop,  and  yellow-washed  tavern, 
and  red,  lichen-stained  cottage,  beneath  the  row  of  tall  Lombardy 
poplars  that  raised  their  brown-grey  spires  to  the  blue-grey  of  the 
autumn  sky.     Richard's  left  hand  held  the  reins  again. 

"Half  confidences  are  no  good,"  he  said.  "So,  as  you've 
trusted  me  thus  far,  Helen,  don't  you  think  you  will  trust  some- 
what further?     Be  explicit.     Tell  me  the  rest." 

And  hearing  him,  seeing  him,  just  then,  Madame  de  Vallorbes' 
heart  melted  within  her,  and,  to  her  own  prodigious  surprise,  she- 
had  much  ado  not  to  weep. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WHICH    TOnrilKS    INCIDKNTALI.Y    OK    MA'f'Ii:itS    OF'    FINANCK 

AS  Richard  had  predicted  the  fog  reappeared  towards  sunset. 
At  first,  as  a  frail  mist,  through  which  the  landscape 
looked  colourless  and  blurred.  Later  it  rose,  grf)wing  in  density, 
until  all  objects  beyond  a  radius  of  some  twenty  paces  were 


240  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

■engulfed  in  its  nothingness  and  lost.  Later  still — while  Helen 
de  Vallorbes  paid  her  visit  at  Ncwlands — it  grew  denser  yet, 
heavy,  torpid,  close  yet  cold,  penetrated  by  earthy  odours  as 
the  atmosphere  of  a  vault,  oppressive  to  the  senses,  baffling  to 
sight  and  hearing  alike.  From  out  it,  half-leafless  branches, 
like  gaunt  arms  in  tattered  draperies,  seemed  to  claw  and 
beckon  at  the  passing  carriage  and  its  occupants.  The  silver 
mountings  of  the  harness  showed  in  points  and  splashes  of  hard, 
shining  white  as  against  the  shifting,  universal  dead-whiteness  of 
it,  while  the  breath  from  the  horses'  nostrils  rose  into  it  as 
defiant  jets  of  steam,  that  struggled  momentarily  with  the  opaque, 
all-enveloping  vapour,  only  to  be  absorbed  and  obliterated  as 
light  by  darkness,  or  life  by  death. 

The  aspect  presented  by  nature  was  sinister,  had  Richard 
Calmady  been  sufficiently  at  leisure  to  observe  it  in  detail.  But, 
as  he  slowly  walked  the  horses  up  and  down  the  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  woodland  drive,  leading  from  the  thatched  lodge  on  the  right 
of  the  Westchurch  road  to  the  house,  he  was  not  at  leisure.  He 
had  received  enlightenment  on  many  subjects.  He  had  acquired 
startling  impressions,  and  he  needed  to  place  these,  to  bring 
them  into  line  with  the  general  habit  of  his  thought.  The 
majority  of  educated  persons — so-called — think  in  words,  words 
often  arbitrary  and  inaccurate  enough,  prolific  mothers  of  mental 
confusion.  The  minority,  and  those  of  by  no  means  con- 
temptible intellectual  calibre, — since  the  symbol  must  count  for 
more  than  the  mere  label, — think  in  images  and  pictures.  Dickie 
belonged  to  the  minority.  And  it  must  be  conceded  that  his 
mind  now  projected  against  that  shifting,  impalpable  background 
of  fog,  a  series  of  pictures  which  in  their  cynical  pathos,  their 
suggestions  at  once  voluptuous  and  degraded,  were  hardly 
imworthy  of  the  great  master,  William  Hogarth,  himself. 

For  Helen,  in  the  reaction  and  relief  caused  by  finding  her 
relation  to  Richard  unimpaired,  caused  too  by  that  joyous 
devilry  resident  in  her  and  constantly  demanding  an  object  on 
which  to  wreak  its  derision,  had  by  no  means  spared  her  lord 
and  master,  Angelo  Luigi  Francesco,  Vicomte  de  Vallorbes. 
And  this  only  son  of  a  thrifty,  hard-bitten,  Savoyard  banker- 
noble  and  a  Neapolitan  princess  of  easy  morals  and  ancient 
lineage,  this  Parisian  vweur,  his  intrigues,  his  jealousies,  his 
practical  ungodliness  and  underlying  superstition,  his  outbursts 
of  temper,  his  shrewd  economy  in  respect  of  others,  and  extensive 
personal  extravagance,  offered  fit  theme,  with  aid  of  little  romanc- 
ing, for  such  a  discourse  as  it  just  now  suited  his  very  brilliant, 
young  wife  to  pronounce. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  241 

The  said  discourse  opened  in  a  low  key,  broken  by  pauses, 
by  tactful  self-accusations,  by  questionings  as  to  whether  it  were 
not  more  merciful,  more  loyal,  to  leave  this  or  that  untold.  But 
as  she  proceeded,  not  only  did  Helen  suffer  the  seductions  of  the 
fine  art  of  lying,  but  she  really  began  to  have  some  ado  to  keep 
her  exuberant  sense  of  fun  within  due  limits.  For  it  proved  so 
excessively  exhilarating  to  deal  thus  with  Angelo  Luigi  Francesco  ! 
She  had  old  scores  to  settle.  And  had  she  not  this  very  day 
received  an  odiously  disquieting  letter  from  him,  in  which  he  not 
only  made  renewed  complaint  of  her  poor,  little  miseries  of  debts 
and  flirtations,  but  once  more  threatened  retaliation  by  a  cutting- 
off  of  supplies?  In  common  justice  did  he  not  deserve  vilifica- 
tion ?  Therefore,  partly  out  of  revenge,  partly  in  self-justification, 
she  proceeded  with  increasing  enthusiasm  to  show  that  to  know 
M.  de  Vallorbes  was  a  lamentably  liberal  education  in  all 
civilised  iniquities.  With  a  hand,  sure  as  it  was  light,  she 
dissected  out  the  unhappy  gentleman,  and  offered  up  his  mangled 
and  bleeding  reputation  as  tribute  to  her  own  so-perpetually- 
outraged  moral  sense  and  feminine  delicacy,  not  to  mention  her 
so-repeatedly  and  vilely  wounded  heart.  And  there  really  was 
truth — as  at  each  fresh  flight  of  her  imagination  she  did  not  fail 
to  remind  herself — in  all  that  which  she  said.  Truth  ? — yes,  just 
that  misleading  sufficiency  of  it  in  which  a  lie  thrives.  For,  as 
every  artist  "in  this  kind"  is  aware,  precisely  as  you  would  have 
the  overgrowth  of  your  improvisation  richly  phenomenal  and 
preposterous,  must  you  be  careful  to  set  the  root  of  it  in  the 
honest  soil  of  fact.  To  omit  this  precaution  is  to  court  eventual 
detection  and  consequent  confusion  of  face. 

As  it  was,  Helen  entered  the  house  at  Newlands,  a  house 
singularly  unused  to  psychological  aberrations,  in  buoyant 
spirits,  mischief  sitting  in  her  discreetly  downcast  eyes,  laughter 
perplexing  her  lips.  .She  had  placed  her  cargo  of  provocation, 
of  resentment,  to  such  excellent  advantage  !  She  was,  moreover, 
slightly  intoxicated  by  her  own  eloquence.  She  was  at  peace 
with  herself  and  all  mankind,  with  de  Vallorbes  even  since 
his  sins  had  afforded  her  so  rare  an  opportunity.  And  this 
occasioned  her  to  congratulate  herself  on  her  own  conspicuous 
magnanimity.  It  is  so  exceedingly  pleasing  not  only  to  know 
yourself  clever,  but  to  believe  yourself  good  !  She  would  be 
charming  to  these  dear,  kind,  rather  dull  people.  Not  that 
Honoria  was  dull,  but  she  had  inconveniently  austere  notions  of 
honour  and  loyalty  at  moments.  And  then  the  solitary  drive  home 
with  Richard  (,';ilma(ly  lay  ahead,  full  of  possible  drama,  full  of, 
well,  Heaven  knew  what !  Oh  !  how  entrancing  a  pastime  is  life  ! 
16 


242  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  to  Richard,  walking  the  snorting  and  impatient  horses 
slowly  up  and  down  the  woodland  drive  in  the  blear  and  sight- 
less fog,  life  appeared  quite  other  than  an  entrancing  pastime. 
The  pictures  projected  by  his  thought,  and  forming  the  medium 
of  it,  caused  him  black  indignation  and  revolt,  desolated  him, 
too,  with  a  paralysing  disgust  of  his  own  disabilities.  For  poor 
Dick  had  declined  somewhat  in  the  last  few  hours,  it  must  be 
owned,  from  the  celestial  altitudes  he  had  reached  before 
luncheon.  Some  part  of  his  cousin's  discourse  had  been  danger- 
ously intimate  in  character,  suggesting  situations  quite  other  than 
platonic.  To  him  there  appeared  a  noble  innocence  in  her 
treatment  of  matters  not  usually  spoken  of.  He  had  listened 
with  a  certain  reverent  amazem:,iit.  Only  out  of  purity  of 
mind  could  such  speech  come.  And  yet  an  undeniable  effect 
remained,  and  it  was  not  altogether  elevating.  Richard  was  no 
longer  the  young  Sir  Galahad  of  the  noontide  of  this  eventful 
day.  He  was  just  simply  a  man — in  a  sensible  degree  the  animal 
man — loving  a  woman,  hating  that  other  man  to  whom  she  was 
legally  bound.  Hating  that  other  man,  not  only  because  he 
was  unworthy  and  failed  to  make  her  happy,  but  because  he  stood 
in  his — Richard's — way.  Hating  the  man  all  the  more  fiercely 
because,  whatever  the  uncomeliness  of  his  moral  constitution,  he 
was  physically  very  far  from  uncomely.  And  so,  along  with 
nobler  incitements  to  hatred,  went  the  fiend  envy,  which  just 
now  plucked  at  poor  Dickie's  vitals  as  the  vulture  at  those  of  the 
chained  Titan  of  old.  Whereupon  he  fell  into  a  meditation 
somewhat  morbid.  For,  contemplating  in  pictured  thought  that 
other  man's  bodily  perfection,  contemplating  his  property  and 
victim, — the  fair  modern  Helen,  who  by  her  courage  and  her 
trials  exercised  so  potent  a  spell  over  his  imagination, — Richard 
loathed  his  own  maimed  body,  maimed  chances  and  opportunities, 
as  he  had  never  loathed  them  before.  How  often  since  his 
childhood  had  some  casual  circumstance  or  trivial  accident 
brought  the  fact  of  his  misfortune  home  to  him,  causing  him — 
as  he  at  the  moment  supposed — to  reckon,  once  and  for  all,  with 
the  sum  total  of  it  1  But,  as  years  passed  and  experience  widened, 
below  each  depth  of  this  adhering  misery  another  deep  disclosed 
itself.  Would  he  never  reach  bottom  ?  Would  this  inalienable 
disgrace  continue  to  show  itself  more  restricting  and  impeding 
to  his  action,  more  repulsive  and  contemptible  to  his  fellow-men, 
through  all  the  succeeding  stages  and  vicissitudes  of  his  career, 
right  to  the  very  close? 

To  her  hosts  Madame  de  Vallorbcs  appeared  in  her  gayest 
and  most  engaging  humour. — "  It  was  only  a  flying  visit,  she 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  243 

mustn't  stay,  Richard  was  waiting  for  her.  Only  she  felt  she 
must  just  have  two  words  with  Honoria.  And  say  good-bye  ? 
Yes,  ten  thousand  sorrows,  it  was  good-bye.  She  was  recalled 
to  Paris,  home,  and  duty  "—She  made  an  expressive  little  grimace 
at  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"  Your  husband  will  be  " —  began  Mrs.  Cathcart,  in  her  large, 
gently  authoritative  manner. 

"  Enchanted  to  see  me,  of  course,  dear  cousin  Selina,  or  he 
would  not  have  required  my  return  thus  urgently.  We  may  take 
that  for  said.  Meanwhile  what  strange  sprigs  of  nobility  flourish 
in  the  local  soil  here." 

And  she  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  the  Fallowfeild 
party  at  luncheon,  more  witty,  perhaps,  than  veracious.  Helen 
could  be  extremely  entertaining  on  occasion.  She  gave  reins  to 
her  tongue,  and  it  galloped  away  with  her  in  most  surprising 
fashion. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  interrupted  her  hostess,  "you  are  a 
little  unkind  surely  !     My  dear,  you  are  a  little  flippant ! " 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  enveloped  her  in  the  most  assuag- 
ing embrace. 

"Let  me  laugh  while  I  can,  dearest  cousin  Selina,"  she 
pleaded.  "  I  have  had  a  delightful,  little  holiday.  Everyone  has 
been  charming  to  me.  You,  of  course — but  then  you  always  are 
that.  Your  presence  breathes  consolation.  But  Aunt  Katherine 
has  been  charming  too,  and  that,  quite  between  ourselves,  was 
a  little  more  than  I  anticipated.  Now  the  holiday  draws  to  a 
close  and  pay-day  looms  large  ahead.  You  know  nothing  about 
such  pay-days  thank  Heaven,  dear  cousin  Selina.  They  are  far 
from  joyous  inventions  ;  and  so" — the  young  lady  spread  abroad 
her  hands,  palms  upward,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders  under 
their  weight  of  costly  furs — "and  so  I  laugh,  don't  you  under- 
stand, I  laugh  ! " 

Miss  St.  Quentin's  delicate,  square-cut  face  wore  an  air  of 
solicitude  as  she  followed  her  friend  out  of  the  room.  There 
was  a  trace  of  indolence  in  her  slow,  reflective  speech,  as  in  her 
long,  swinging  stride — the  indolence  bred  of  unconscious  strength 
rather  than  of  weakness,  the  leisureliness  which  goes  with  staying 
power  both  in  the  moral  and  the  physical  domain. 

"See  here,  Nellie,"  she  said,  "forgive  brutal  frankness,  but 
which  is  the  real  thing  to-day — they're  each  delightful  in  their 
own  way — the  tears  or  the  laughter?" 

"  Both  !  oh,  well-beloved  seeker  after  truth  ! "  Madame  de 
\'aIlorl)es  answered.     "There  lies  the  value  of  the  situation." 

"Fresh  worries?" 


244  SIR  RICHARD  CALxMADY 

*'  No,  no,  the  old,  the  accustomed,  the  well-accredited,  the 
normal,  the  stock  ones — a  husband  and  a  financial  crisis." 

As  she  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes  fastened  the  buttons  of 
her  long  driving-coat.  Miss  St.  Qucntin  knelt  down  and  busied 
herself  with  the  lowest  of  these.  Her  tall,  slender  figure  was 
doubled  together.     She  kept  her  head  bent. 

"  I  happen  to  have  a  pretty  tidy  balance  just  now,"  she 
remarked  parenthetically,  and  as  though  with  a  certain  diffidence. 
"So  you  know,  if  you  are  a  bit  hard  up — why — it's  all  perfectly 
simple,  Nellie,  don't  you  know." 

For  a  perceptible  space  of  time  Madame  de  Vallorbes  did 
not  answer.  A  grating  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  arrested  her 
attention.  She  looked  down  the  long  vista  of  ruddily  lighted 
hall,  with  its  glowing  fire  and  cheerful  lamps  to  the  open  door, 
where,  against  the  blear  whiteness  of  the  fog,  the  mail-phaeton 
and  its  occupant  showed  vague  in  outline  and  in  proportions 
almost  gigantic  against  the  thick,  shifting  atmosphere.  Miss  St. 
Quentin  raised  her  head,  surprised  at  her  companion's  silence. 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  bent  down,  took  the  upturned  face  in  both 
hands  and  kissed  the  soft  cheeks  with  effusion. 

"You  are  adorable,"  she  said.  "But  you  are  too  generous. 
You  shall  lend  me  nothing  more.  I  believe  I  see  my  way.  I 
can  scrape  through  this  crisis." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  rose  to  her  feet. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  smiling  upon  her  friend  from  her 
superior  height  with  a  delightful  air  of  affection  and  apology. 
"  I  only  wanted  you  just  to  know,  in  case — don't  you  see. 
And — and — for  the  rest,  how  goes  it,  Helen  ?  Are  you  turning 
all  their  poor  heads  at  Brockhurst  ?  You're  rather  an  upsetting 
being  to  let  loose  in  an  ordinary,  respectable,  English  country- 
house.  A  sort  of  Alousquetaire  au  convent  the  other  way  about, 
don't  you  know.     Are  you  making  things  fly  generally?" 

"  I  am  making  nothing  fly,"  the  other  lady  rejoined  gaily. 
"  I  am  as  inoffensive  as  a  stained-glass  saint  in  a  chapel  window. 
I  am  absolutely  angelic." 

"That's  worst  of  all,"  Honoria  exclaimed,  still  smiling. 
"When  you're  angelic  you  are  most  particularly  deadly.  For 
the  preservation  of  local  innocents,  somebody  ought  to  go  and 
hoist  danger  signals." 

oMiss  St.  Quentin,  after  just  a  moment's  hesitation,  followed 
her  friend  through  the  warm,  bright  hall  to  the  door.  Then 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  turned  to  her. 

'■'■  Au  revoir,  dearest  Honoria,"  she  said,  "and  the  sooner 
the  better.     Leave  your  shopgirls  and  distressed  needlewomen, 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  245 

and  all  your  other  good  works,  for  a  still  better  one — namely 
for  me.  Come  and  reclaim,  and  comfort,  and  support  me  for 
a  while  in  Paris." 

Again  she  kissed  the  soft  cheek. 

"  I  am  as  good  as  gold.  I  am  just  now  actually  mawkish 
with  virtue,"  she  murmured,  between  the  kisses. 

Richard  witnessed  this  exceedingly  pretty  leave-taking  not 
without  a  movement  of  impatience.  The  fog  was  thickening 
once  more.  It  grew  late.  He  wished  his  cousin  would  get 
through  with  these  amenities.  Then,  moreover,  he  did  not 
covet  intercourse  with  Miss  St.  Quentin.  He  pulled  the  fur 
rug  aside  with  his  left  hand,  holding  reins  and  whip  in  his 
right. 

"  I  say,  are  you  nearly  ready?  "  he  asked.  "  I  don't  want  to 
bother  you  ;  but  really  it's  about  time  we  were  moving." 

"  I  come,  I  come,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  cried,  in  answer. 
She  put  one  neatly-shod  foot  on  the  axle,  and  stepped  up — 
]\.ichard  holding  out  his  hand  to  steady  her.  A  sense,  at  once 
pleasurable  and  defiant,  of  something  akin  to  ownership,  came 
over  him  as  he  did  so.  Just  then  his  attention  was  claimed  by 
a  voice  addressing  him  from  the  farther  side  of  the  carriage. 
Honoria  St.  Quentin  stood  on  the  gravel  close  beside  him, 
bare-headed,  in  the  clinging  damp  and  chill  of  the  fog. 

"Give  my  love  to  Lady  Calmady,"  she  said.  "I  hope  I 
shall  see  her  again  some  day.  But,  even  if  I  never  have  the  luck 
to  do  that,  in  a  way  it'll  make  no  real  difference.  I've  written 
her  name  in  my  private  calendar,  and  shall  always  remember 
it." — She  paused  a  moment.  "We  got  rather  near  each  other 
somehow,  I  think.  We  didn't  dawdle  or  beat  about  the  bush, 
but  went  straight  along,  passed  the  initial  stages  of  acfiuaintance 
in  a  few  hours,  and  reached  that  point  of  friendship  where 
forgetting  becomes  impossible." 

"  My  mother  never  forgets,"  Richard  asserted,  and  there  was, 
pcrha{)s,  a  slight  edge  to  his  tone.  Looking  down  into  the  girl's 
pale,  finely-moulded  face,  meeting  the  glance  of  those  steady, 
strangely  clear  and  observant  eyes,  he  received  an  impression  of 
something  uncompromisingly  sincere  and  in  a  measure  protective. 
'F'his,  for  cause  unknown,  he  resented.  Notwithstanding  her 
high -breeding,  Miss  St.  Quentin's  attitude  appeared  to  him  a 
trifle  intrusive  just  then. 

"  I  am  very  sure  of  that — that  your  niotlur  never  forgets,  1 
moan.  One  knows,  at  once,  one  can  trust  her  down  to  the 
ground  and  on  to  the  end  of  the  ages." — -Again  she  paused, 
as  though   rallying  herself  against  a  disinclination   for  further 


246  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

speech.  "  All  captivating  women  aren't  made  on  that  pattern, 
unfortunately,  you  know,  Sir  Richard.  A  good  many  of  them 
it's  wisest  not  to  trust  anything  like  down  to  the  ground,  or 
longer  than- — well — the  day  before  yesterday." 

And  without  waiting  for  any  reply  to  this  cryptic  utterance, 
she  stepped  swiftly  round  behind  the  carriage  again,  waved  her 
hand  from  the  door-step  and  then  swung  away,  with  lazy,  long- 
limbed  grace,  past  the  waiting  men-servants  and  through  the 
ruddy  brightness  of  the  hall. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  settled  herself  back  rather  languidly 
in  her  place.     She  was  pricked  by  a  sharp  point  of  curiosity, 
regarding  the  tenor  of  Miss  St.  Quentin's  mysterious  colloquy 
with  Richard  Calmady.     She   had   been  able  to  catch  but  a 
word  here  and  there,  and  these  had  been  provokingly  suggestive. 
Had  the  well-beloved  Honoria,  in  a  moment  of  over-scrupulous 
conscientiousness   permitted    herself    to   hoist   danger   signals? 
She  wanted  to  know,  for  it  was  her  business  to  haul  such  down 
again  with  all  possible  despatch.     She  intended  the  barometer 
to  register  "  set  fair "  whatever  the  weather  actually  impending. 
Yet  to  institute  direct  inquiries   might    be    to  invite  suspicion. 
Helen,  therefore,  declined  upon  diplomacy,  upon  the  inverted 
sweetnesses  calculated  nicely  to  mask  an  intention  cjuite  other 
than  sweet.     She  really  held  her  friend  in  very  warm  affection 
But   Madame    de    Vallorbes    never    confused    secondary   and 
primary  issues.     When  you  have  a  really  big  deal  on  hand — 
and   of  the   bigness   of  her  present   deal   the   last   quarter   of 
an  hour  had  brought   her   notably  increased  assurance — even 
the  dearest  friend  must  stand  clear  and  get  very  decidedly  out 
of  the  way.     So,  while  the  muffled  thud  of  the  horses'  hoofs 
echoed  up  from  the  hard  gravel  of  the  carriage  drive  through 
the  thick  atmosphere,  and  the  bare  limbs  of  the  trees  clawed, 
as  with  lean  arms  clothed  in  tattered  draperies,   at  the  pass- 
ing   carriage    and    its    occupants,    she    contented    herself    by 
observing : — 

"  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  driving  me  over,  Richard. 
Honoria  is  very  perfect  in  her  own  way.  It  always  does  me 
good  to  see  her.  She's  quite  unlike  anybody  else,  isn't 
she?" 

But  Richard's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  blank  wall  of  fog 
just  ahead,  which,  though  always  stable,  always  receded  before 
the  advancing  carriage.  The  effect  of  it  was  unpleasant  some- 
how, holding,  as  it  did  to  his  mind,  suggestion  of  other  things 
still  more  baffling  and  impending,  from  which — though  you 
might   keep   them  at  arm's  length — there   was   no  permanent 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC  I  247 

or  actual  escape.  The  question  of  Miss  St.  Quentin's 
characteristics  did  not  consequently  greatly  interest  him.  He 
had  arrived  at  conclusions.  There  was  a  matter  of  vital  im- 
portance on  which  he  desired  to  speak  to  his  cousin.  But 
how  to  do  that?  Richard  was  young  and  excellently  modest. 
His  whole  purpose  was  rather  fiercely  focused  on  speech.  But 
he  was  diffident,  fearing  to  approach  the  subject  which  he 
had  so  much  at  heart  clumsily  and  in  a  tactless,  tasteless 
manner. 

"Miss  St.  Quentin?  Oh  yes!"  he  replied,  rather  absently. 
"  I  really  know  next  to  nothing  about  her.  And  she  seems 
merely  to  regard  me  as  a  vehicle  of  communication  between 
herself  and  my  mother.  She  sent  her  messages  just  now — 
I  hope  to  goodness  I  shan't  forget  to  deliver  them  !  She  and 
my  mother  appear  to  have  fallen  pretty  considerably  in  love 
with  one  another." 

"  Probably,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  said  softly.  An  agreeable 
glow  of  relief  passed  over  her.  She  looked  up  at  Richard  with 
a  delightful  effect  of  pensiveness  from  beneath  the  sweeping 
brim  of  her  cavalier  hat. — "  I  can  well  believe  Aunt  Katherine 
would  be  attracted  by  her,"  she  continued.  "  Honoria  is  quite 
a  woman's  woman.  Men  do  not  care  very  much  about  her  as 
a  rule.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  latent  vanity  resident  in  the 
members  of  your  sex,  you  know,  Richard ;  and  men  are  usually 
conscious  that  Honoria  does  not  care  so  very  much  about  them. 
They  are  quite  right,  she  does  not.  I  really  believe  when  poor, 
dreadful,  old  Lady  Tobermory  left  her  all  that  money  Honoria's 
first  thought  was  that  now  she  might  embrace  celibacy  with 
a  good  conscience.  The  St.  Quentins  are  not  precisely 
millionaires,  you  know.  Her  wealth  left  her  free  to  espouse 
the  cause  of  womanhood  at  large.  She  is  a  little  bit  Quixotic, 
dear  thing,  and  given  to  tilting  at  windmills.  She  wants  to  secure 
to  working  women  a  fair  business  basis — that  is  the  technical 
expression,  I  believe.  And  so  she  starts  clubs,  and  forms 
circles.  She  says  women  must  be  encouraged  to  combine  and 
to  agitate.  Whether  they  are  cai)able  of  combining  I  do  not 
pretend  to  say.  These  high  matters  transcend  my  small  wit. 
But,  as  I  have  often  pointed  out  to  her,  agitation  is  the  natural 
attitude  of  every  woman.  It  wcjuld  seem  superfluous  to  en- 
courage or  inculcate  that,  for  surely  wherever  two  or  three 
petticoats  are  gathered  together,  there,  as  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  is  agitation  of  necessity  in  the  midst  of  tiiem." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  leaned  back  with  a  little  sigh  and  air 
of  exquisite  resignation. 


248  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  All  the  same,  the  majority  of  women  are  unhappy  enough, 
Heaven  knows  !  If  Honoria,  or  any  other  sweet,  feminine  Quixote, 
can  find  means  to  lighten  the  burden  of  our  lives,  she  has  my 
very  sincere  thanks,  well  understood." 

Richard  drew  his  whip  across  the  backs  of  the  trotting  horses, 
making  them  plunge  forward  against  that  blank,  impalpable  wall 
of  all-encircling,  ever- receding,  ever-present  fog.  The  carriage 
had  just  crossed  the  long,  white-railed  bridge,  spanning  the  little 
river  and  space  of  marsh  on  either  side,  and  now  entered  Sandy- 
field  Street.  The  tops  of  the  tall  Lombardy  poplars  were  lost  in 
gloom.  Now  and  again  the  redness  of  a  lighted  cottage  window, 
blurred  and  contorted  in  shape,  showed  through  the  grey  pall. 
Slow-moving,  country  figures,  passing  vehicles,  a  herd  of  some 
eight  or  ten  cows — preceded  by  a  diabolic  looking  billy-goat,  and 
followed  by  a  lad  astride  the  hind-quarters  of  a  bare-backed 
donkey — grew  out  of  pallid  nothingness  as  the  carriage  came 
abreast  of  them,  and  receded  with  mysterious  rapidity  into 
nothingness  again.  The  effect  was  curiously  fantastic  and 
unreal.  And,  as  the  minutes  passed,  that  effect  of  unreality 
gained  upon  Richard's  imagination,  until  now — as  last  evening 
in  the  stately  solitude  of  the  Long  Gallery — he  became  increas- 
ingly aware  of  the  personality  of  his  companion,  increasingly 
penetrated  by  the  feeling  of  being  alone  with  that  personality,  as 
though  the  world,  so  strangely  blotted  out  by  these  dim,  obliterat- 
ing vapours,  were  indeed  vacant  of  all  human  interest,  human 
purpose,  human  history,  save  that  incarnate  in  this  fair  woman 
and  in  his  own  relation  to  her.  She  alone  existed,  concrete, 
exquisite,  sentient,  amid  the  vague,  shifting  immensities  of  fog. 
She  alone  mattered.  Her  near  neighbourhood  worked  upon  him 
strongly,  causing  an  excitement  in  him  which  at  once  hindered 
and  demanded  speech. 

Night  began  to  close  in  in  good  earnest.  Passing  the  broad, 
yellowish  glare  streaming  out  from  the  rounded  tap-room  window 
of  the  Calmady  Arms,  and  passing  from  the  end  of  the  village 
street  on  to  the  open  common,  the  light  had  become  so  uncertain 
that  Richard  could  no  longer  see  his  companion's  face  clearly. 
This  was  almost  a  relief  to  him,  so  that,  mastering  at  once  his 
diffidence  and  his  excitement,  he  spoke. 

"  Look  here,  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  over  all 
that  you  told  me.  I  don't  want  to  dwell  on  subjects  that  must 
be  very  painful  to  you,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  about  them. 
It's  not  that  I  won't  leave  them  alone,  but  that  they  won't  leave  me. 
I  don't  want  to  presume  upon  your  confidence,  or  take  too  much 
upon  myself.     Only,  don't  you   see,  now  that   I    do   know  it's 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  249 

impossible  to  sit  down  under  it  all  and  let  things  go  on  just  the 
same. — You're  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

The  young  man  spoke  very  carefully  and  calmly,  yet  the 
tones  of  his  voice  were  heavily  charged  with  feeling. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clasped  her  hands  rather  tightly  within 
her  sable  muft".  Unconsciously  she  began  to  sway  a  little,  just  a 
very  little,  as  a  person  will  sway  in  time  to  strains  of  stirring 
music.  An  excitement,  not  mental  merely  but  physical,  invaded 
her.  For  she  recognised  that  she  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
developments  in  this  very  notable  drama.  Still  she  answered 
quietly,  with  a  touch  even  of  weariness. 

"  Ah  !  dear  Richard,  it  is  so  friendly  and  charming  of  you 
to  take  my  infelicities  thus  to  heart !  But  to  what  end,  to  what 
end,  I  ask  you  ?  The  conditions  are  fixed.  Escape  from  them 
is  impossible.  I  have  made  my  bed — made  it  most  abominably 
uncomfortably,  I  admit,  but  that  is  not  to  the  point — and  I  must 
lie  on  it.     There  is  no  redress.     There  is  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  Yes,  there  is  this,"  he  replied.  "  I  know  it  is  wretchedly 
inadequate,  it  doesn't  touch  the  root  of  the  matter.  Oh  !  it's 
miserably  inadequate  —  I  should  think  I  did  know  that!  Only 
it  might  smooth  the  surface  a  bit,  perhaps,  and  put  a  stop  to  one 
.source  of  annoyance.  Forgive  me  if  I  say  what  seems  coarse  or 
clumsy — but  would  not  your  position  be  easier  if,  in  regard  to — 
to  money,  you  were  quite  independent  of  that — of  your  husband, 
I  mean, — M.  de  Vallorbes  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  young  lady  remained  very  still,  and  stared 
very  hard  at  the  fog.  The  most  surprising  visions  arose  before 
her.     She  had  a  difficulty  in  repressing  an  exclamation. 

"  Ah !  there  now,  I  have  l^lundered.  I've  hurt  you.  I've 
made  you  angry,"  Dickie  cried  impulsively. 

"  No,  no,  dear  Richard,"  she  answered,  with  admirable  gentle- 
ness, "  I  am  not  angry.     Only  what  is  the  use  of  romancing?" 

"yam  not  romancing.  It  is  the  simplest  thing  out,  if  you 
will  but  have  it  so." 

He  hesitated  a  little.  The  horses  were  pulling,  the  fog  was 
in  his  throat  thick  and  choking — or  was  it,  j)crhaps,  something 
more  unsu^)stantial  and  intangil)le  even  than  fog?  The  spacious 
barns  and  rirkyards  of  the  Church  I'arm  were  just  visible  on  the 
right.  In  less  than  five  minutes  more,  at  their  present  pace,  the 
horses  would  rr-ac  h  the  first  park  gate.  The  young  man  felt  he 
must  give  himself  time.  He  r]uicted  the  horses  down  into  a 
walk. 

"  If  I  were  your  brother,  Hf;len,  I  sliould  save  you  all  these 
sordid  money  worries  as   a   matter   of  course.      You   have  no 


250  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

brother — so,  don't  you  see,  I  come  next.  It's  a  perfectly  obvious 
arrangement.     Just  let  me  be  your  banker,"  he  said. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  shut  her  pretty  teeth  together.  She 
could  have  danced,  she  could  have  sung  aloud  for  very  gaiety  of 
heart.  She  had  not  anticipated  this  turn  to  the  situation  ;  but  it 
was  a  delicious  one.  It  had  great  practical  merits.  Her  brain 
worked  rapidly.  Immediately  those  practical  merits  ranged 
themselves  before  her  in  detail.  But  she  would  play  with  it  a 
little — both  diplomacy  and  good  taste,  in  which  last  she  was  by 
no  means  deficient,  required  that. 

"Ah  !  you  forget,  dear  Richard,"  she  said,  "in  your  friendly 
zeal  you  forget  that,  in  our  rank  of  life,  there  is  one  thing  a 
woman  cannot  accept  from  a  man.  To  take  money  is  to  lay 
yourself  open  to  slanderous  tongues,  is  to  court  scandal.  Sooner 
or  later  it  is  known,  the  fact  leaks  out.  And  however  innocent 
the  intention,  however  noble  and  honest  the  giving,  however 
grateful  and  honest  the  receiving,  the  world  puts  but  one  con- 
struction upon  such  a  transaction." 

"  The  world's  beastly  evil-minded  then,"  Richard  said. 

"So  it  is.  But  that  is  no  news,  Dickie  dear,"  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  answered.     "  Nor  is  it  exactly  to  the  point." 

Inwardly  she  trembled  a  little.  What  if  she  had  headed  him 
off  too  cleverly,  and  he  should  regard  her  argument  as  convincing, 
her  refusal  as  final  ?  Her  fears  were  by  no  means  lessened  by 
the  young  man's  protracted  silence. 

"  No,  I  don't  agree,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  suppose  there 
are  always  risks  to  be  run  in  securing  anything  at  all  worth 
securing,  and  it  seems  to  me,  if  you  look  at  it  all  round, 
the  risks  in  this  case  are  very  slight.  Only  you — and  M.  de 
Vallorbes  need  know.  I  suppose  he  must.  But  then,  if  you  will 
pardon  my  saying  so,  after  what  you  have  told  me  I  can't 
imagine  he  is  the  sort  of  person  who  is  likely  to  object  very 
much  to  an  arrangement  by  which  he  would  benefit,  at  least 
indirectly.  As  for  the  world," — Richard  ceased  to  contemplate 
his  horses.  He  tried  to  speak  lightly,  while  his  eyes  sought  that 
dimly  seen  face  at  his  elbow. — "Oh,  well,  hang  the  world, 
Helen  !  It's  easy  enough  for  me  to  say  so,  I  daresay,  being 
but  so  slightly  acquainted  with  it  and  the  ways  of  it.  But  the 
world  can't  be  so  wholly  hide-bound  and  idiotic  that  it  denies 
the  existence  of  exceptional  cases.  And  this  case,  in  some  of 
its  bearings  at  all  events,  is  wholly  exceptional,  I  am — happy 
to  think." 

"  You  are  a  very  convincing  special  pleader,  Richard," 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  said  softly. 


•    LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  251 

"Then  you  accept?"  he  rejoined  exultantly.  "You 
accept  ?  " 

The  young  lady  could  not  quite  control  herself. 

"  Ah  !  if  you  only  knew  the  prodigious  relief  it  would  be," 
she  exclaimed,  with  an  outbreak  of  impatience.  "  It  would  make 
an  incalculable  difference.  And  yet  I  do  not  see  my  way.  I  am 
in  a  cleft  stick.  I  dare  not  say  Yes.  And  to  say  No  " —  Her 
sincerity  was  unimpeachable  at  that  moment.  Her  eyes  actually 
filled  with  tears.  "  Pah  !  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  cried, 
"but,  to  refuse  is  distracting." 

The  gate  of  the  outer  park  had  been  reached.  The  groom 
swung  himself  down  and  ran  forward,  but  confused  by  the 
growing  darkness  and  the  thick  atmosphere  he  fumbled  for  a 
time  before  finding  the  heavy  latch.  The  horses  became  some- 
what restive,  snorting  and  fidgeting. 

"  Steady  there,  steady,  good  lass,"  Richard  said  soothingly. 
Then  he  turned  again  to  his  companion.  "  Believe  me  it's  the 
very  easiest  thing  out  to  accept,  if  you'll  only  look  at  it  all  from 
the  right  point  of  view,  Helen." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  withdrew  her  right  hand  from  her 
muff  and  laid  it,  almost  timidly,  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  are  wonderfully  dear  to  me,  Dick  ?  "  she 
said,  and  her  voice  shook  slightly.  She  was  genuinely  touched 
and  moved. — "  No  one  has  ever  been  quite  so  dear  to  me 
before.  It  is  a  new  experience.  It  takes  my  breath  away  a 
little.  It  makes  me  regret  some  things  I  have  done.  But  it 
is  a  mistake  to  go  back  on  what  is  past,  don't  you  think  so? 
Therefore  we  will  go  forward.  Tell  me,  expound,  ^\'hat  is 
this  so  agreeably  reconciling  point  of  view  ?  " 

But  along  with  the  touch  of  her  hand,  a  great  wave  of 
emotion  swept  over  poor  Richard,  making  his  grasp  on  the 
reins  very  unsteady.  The  sensations  he  had  suffered  last 
evening  in  the  Long  Gallery  again  assailed  him.  The  flesh 
had  its  word  to  say.  Speech  became  difficult.  Meanwhile  his 
agitation  communicated  itself  strangely  to  the  horses.  They 
sprang  forward  against  that  all-encircling,  ever-present,  yet  ever- 
receding,  blank  wall  of  fog,  to  which  the  over-arching  trees  lent 
an  added  gloom  and  mystery,  as  though  some  incarnate  terror 
pursued  them.  The  gate  clanged-to  behind  the  carriage.  The 
groom  scrambled  breathlessly  into  his  [jlace.  Sir  Richard's 
driving  was  rather  reckless,  he  ventured  to  think,  on  such  a 
nasty,  dark  night,  and  with  a  lady  alfnig  of  him  too.  He  was 
not  sorry  when  the  pare  slowed  down  to  a  walk.  That  was  a 
long  sight  safer,  to  his  thinking. 


25-'  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


"The  right  point  of  view  is  this,"  Richard  said  at  last; 
"that  in  accepting  you  would  be  doing  that  which,  in  some 
ways,  would  make  just  all  the  difference  to  my  life." 

He  held  himself  very  upright  on  the  sloping  driving-seat, 
rather  cruelly  conscious  of  the  broad  strap  about  his  waist,  and 
the  high,  unsightly  driving-iron  against  which,  concealed  by  the 
heavy,  fur  rug,  his  feet  pushed  as  he  balanced  himself.  He 
paused,  gating  away  into  the  silent  desolation  of  the  now  in- 
visible woods,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his  voice  had  deepened 
in  tone. 

"  It  must  be  patent  to  you — it  is  rather  detestably  patent 
to  everyone,  I  suppose,  if  it  comes  to  that — that  I  am  condemned 
to  be  of  precious  little  use  to  myself  or  anyone  else.  I  share 
the  fate  of  the  immortal  Sancho  Panza  in  his  island  of 
Barataria.  A  very  fine  feast  is  spread  before  me,  while  I  find 
myself  authoritatively  forbidden  to  eat  first  of  this  dish  and 
then  of  that,  until  I  end  by  being  every  bit  as  hungry  as  though 
the  table  was  bare.  It  becomes  rather  a  nuisance  at  times,  you 
know,  and  taxes  one's  temper  and  one's  philosophy.  It  seems 
a  little  rough  to  possess  all  that  so  many  men  of  my  age  would 
give  just  everything  to  have,  and  yet  be  unable  to  get  anything 
but  unsatisfied  hunger,  and — in  plain  English — humiliation,  out 
of  it." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  sat  very  still.  Her  charming  face 
had  grown  keen.  She  listened,  drawing  in  her  breath  with  a 
little  sobbing  sound — but  that  was  only  the  result  of  accentuated 
dramatic  satisfaction. 

"You  see  I  have  no  special  object  or  ambition.  I  can't 
have  one.  I  just  pass  the  time.  I  don't  see  any  prospect  of 
my  ever  being  able  to  do  more  than  that.  There's  my  mother, 
of  course.  I  need  not  tell  you  she  and  I  love  one  another.  And 
there  are  the  horses.  But  I  don't  care  to  bet,  and  I  never 
attend  a  race-meeting.  I — I  do  not  choose  to  make  an  exhibition 
of  myself." 

Again  Helen  drew  her  hand  out  of  her  muff,  but  this  time 
(juickly,  impulsively,  and  laid  it  on  Richard's  left  hand  which 
held  the  reins.  The  young  man's  breath  caught  in  his  throat, 
he  leaned  sideways  towards  her,  her  shoulder  touching  his 
elbow,  the  trailing  plumes  of  her  hat — now  limp  from  the 
clinging  moisture  of  the  fog — for  a  moment  brushing  his  cheek. 

"Helen,"  he  said  rapidly,  "don't  you  understand  it's  in 
your  power  to  alter  all  this?  By  accepting  you  would  do 
infinitely  more  for  me  than  I  could  ever  dream  of  doing  for 
you.     You'd  give  me  something  to  think  of  and  plan  about. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  Sx\NS  MERCI  253 

If  you'll  only  have  whatever  wretched  money  you  need  now, 
and  have  more  whenever  you  want  it — if  you'll  let  me  feel,  how- 
ever rarely  we  meet,  that  you  depend  on  me  and  trust  me  and 
let  me  make  things  a  trifle  easier  and  smoother  for  you,  you  will 
be  doing  such  an  act  of  charity  as  few  women  have  ever  done. 
Don't  refuse,  for  pity's  sake  don't !  I  don't  want  to  whine,  but 
things  were  not  precisely  gay  before  your  coming,  you  know. 
Need  it  be  added  they  promise  to  be  less  so  than  ever  after 
you  are  gone  ?  So  listen  to  reason.  Do  as  I  ask  you.  Let 
me  be  of  use  in  the  only  way  I  can." 

"  Do  you  consider  what  you  propose  ?  "  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
asked,  slowly.  "  It  is  a  good  deal.  It  is  dangerous.  With 
most  men  such  a  compact  would  be  wholly  inadmissible." 

Then  poor  Dickie  lost  himself.  The  strain  of  the  last  week, 
the  young,  headlong  passion  aroused  in  him,  the  misery  of 
his  deformity,  the  accumulated  bitterness  and  rebellion  of  years 
arose  and  overflowed  as  a  great  flood.  Pride  went  down  before 
it,  and  reticence,  and  decencies  of  self-respect.  Richard  turned 
and  rent  himself,  without  mercy  and,  for  the  moment,  without 
shame.  He  pelted  himself  with  cruel  words,  with  scorn  and 
self-contempt,  while  he  laughed,  and  the  sound  of  that  laughter 
wandered  away  weirdly  through  the  chill  density  of  the  fog, 
under  the  tall,  shadowy  firs  of  the  great  avenue,  over  the 
sombre  heather,  out  into  the  veiled,  crowded  darkness  of  the 
wide  woods. 

" But  I  am  not  as  other  men  are,"  he  answered.  "I  am  a 
creature  by  myself,  a  uniciue  development  as  much  outside  the 
normal  social,  as  I  am  outside  the  normal  physical  law.  I — 
alone  by  myself — think  of  it ! — abnormal,  extraordinary. — You 
are  safe  enough  with  me,  Helen.  Safe  to  indulge  and  humour 
me  as  you  might  a  monkey  or  a  parrot.  All  the  world  will 
understand  that !  Only  my  mother,  and  a  few  old  friends  and 
old  servants  take  me  seriously.  To  everyone  else  I  am  an 
embarrassment,  a  more  or  less  distressing  curiosity." — He  met 
little  Lady  Constance  Quayle's  ruminant  stare  again  in  imagination, 
heard  Lord  Fallowfeild's  blundering  speech. — "Remember  our 
luncheon  today.  It  was  flattering,  at  moments,  wasn't  it? 
And  so  if  I  do  queer  things,  things  off  the  conventional  lines, 
who  will  l>e  sur[)rised?  No  one,  I  tell  you,  not  even  the  most 
strait-laced  or  censorious.  Allow  me  at  least  the  privileges  of 
my  disabilities.  I  am  a  dwarf — a  cripple.  I  shall  never  be 
otherwise.  Had  I  lived  a  century  or  two  ago  I  should  have 
made  sport  for  you,  and  such  as  you,  as  some  rich  man's 
professional  fool.     And  so,  if  I  overstep  the  usual  limits,  who 


254  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

will  comment  on  that  ?  Queer  things,  crazy  things,  are  in  the 
part.     What  do  I  matter  ?  " 

Richard  laughed  aloud. 

"At  least  I  have  this  advantage,  that  in  my  case  you  can 
do  what  you  can  do  in  the  case  of  no  other  man.  With  me 
you  needn't  be  afraid.  No  one  will  think  evil.  With  me — yes, 
after  all,  there  is  a  drop  of  comfort  in  it — with  me,  Helen,  you're 
safe  enough." 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.    LUDOVIC    QUAYLK    AMONG    THE    PROPHETS 

THAT  same  luncheon  party  at  Brockhurst,  if  not  notably 
satisfactory  to  the  hosts,  afforded  much  subsequent  food 
for  meditation  to  one  at  least  of  the  guests.  During  the  evening 
immediately  following  it,  and  even  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
Lady  Louisa  Barking's  thought  was  persistently  engaged  with  the 
subject  of  Richard  Calmady,  his  looks,  his  character,  his  temper, 
his  rent-roll,  the  acreage  of  his  estates,  and  his  prospects  generally. 
Nor  did  her  interest  remain  hidden  and  inarticulate.  For, 
finding  that  in  various  particulars  her  knowledge  was  superficial 
and  clearly  insufficient,  on  her  journey  from  Westchurch  up  to 
town  next  day,  in  company  with  her  brother  Ludovic,  she  put  so 
many  questions  to  that  accomplished,  young  gentleman  that  he 
shortly  divined  some  serious  purpose  in  her  inquiry. 

"  We  all  recognise,  my  dear  Louisa,"  he  remarked  presently, 
laying  aside  the  day's  Times,  of  which  he  had  vainly  essayed  the 
study,  with  an  air  of  gentle  resignation,  crossing  his  long  legs  and 
leaning  back  in  his  corner  of  the  railway  carriage, — "that  you 
are  the  possessor  of  an  eminently  practical  mind.  You  have  run 
the  family  for  some  years  now,  not  without  numerous  successes, 
among  which  may  be  reckoned  your  running  of  yourself  into  the 
arms — if  you  will  pardon  my  mentioning  them — of  my  estimable 
brother-in-law.  Barking." 

"  Really,  Ludovic  !  "  his  sister  protested. 

"  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  turn  restive,  Louisa,"  Mr.  Quayle 
rejoined  with  the  utmost  suavity.  "  I  am  paying  a  high  compli- 
ment to  your  intelligence.  To  have  run  into  the  arms  of  Mr. 
Barking,  or  indeed  of  anybody  else,  casually  and  involuntarily, 
to  have  blundered  into  them — if  I  may  so  express  myself — would 
have  been  a  stupidity.     But  to  run  into  them  intentionally  and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  255 

voluntarily  argues  considerable  powers  of  strategy,  an  intelligent 
direction  of  movement  which  I  respect  and  admire." 

"You  are  really  exceedingly  provoking,  Ludovic  !  " 

Lady  Louisa  pushed  the  square,  leather-covered  dressing-case, 
on  which  her  feet  had  been  resting,  impatiently  aside. 

"Far  from  it,"  the  young  man  answered.  "Can  I  put  that 
box  anywhere  else  for  you  ?  You  like  it  just  where  it  is  ? — Yes  ? 
But  I  assure  you  I  am  not  provoking.  I  am  merely  com- 
plimentary. Conversation  is  an  art,  Louisa.  None  of  my 
sisters  ever  can  be  got  to  understand  that.  It  is  dreadfully 
crude  to  rush  in  waist-deep  at  once.  There  should  be  feints  and 
approaches.  You  should  nibble  at  your  sugar  with  a  graceful 
coyness.  You  should  cut  a  few  frills  and  skirmish  a  little  before 
setting  the  battle  actively  in  array.  And  it  is  just  this  that  I 
have  been  striving  to  do  during  the  last  five  minutes.  But  you 
do  not  appear  to  appreciate  the  commendable  style  of  my 
preliminaries.  You  want  to  engage  immediately.  There  is 
usually  a  first-rate  underlying  reason  for  your  interest  in 
anybody " — 

Again  the  lady  shifted  the  position  of  the  dressing-case. 

"To  the  right?"  inquired  Mr.  Quayle  extending  his  hand, 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  his  long  neck  directed  forward, 
while  he  regarded  first  his  sister  and  then  the  dressing-case  with 
infuriating  urbanity.  "No?  Let  us  come  to  Hecuba,  then. 
Let  us  dissemble  no  longer,  but  put  it  plainly.  What,  oh, 
Louisa  !  what  are  you  driving  at  in  respect  of  my  very  dear  friend, 
Dickie  Calmady?" 

Now  it  was  unquestionably  most  desirable  for  her  to  keep  on 
the  fair-weather  side  of  Mr.  Quayle  just  then.  Yet  the  flesh  is 
weak.  Lady  Louisa  Barking  could  not  control  a  movement  of 
self-justification.     She  spoke  with  dignity,  severely. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  those  sorts  of  things, 
Tvudovic  " — 

"  What  sorts  of  things  ?  "  he  inquired  mildly. 

"  But  I  should  be  glad  to  know  what  would  have  become  of 
the  family  by  now,  unless  someone  had  come  forward  and  taken 
matters  in  hand?  Of  course  one  gets  no  thanks  for  it.  One 
never  docs  get  any  thanks  for  doing  one's  duty,  however  wearing 
it  is  to  oneself  and  however  much  others  profit.  But  somebody 
had  to  sacrifice  themselves.  Mama  is  unequal  to  any  exertion. 
^'ou  know  what  papa  is" — 

"I  do,  I  do,"  murmured  Mr.  Quayle,  raising  his  gaze  piously 
to  the  roof  of  the  railway  carriage. 

"  If  he  has  one  of  the  boys  to  tramp  over  the  country  with 


256  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

him  at  Whitney,  and  one  of  the  girls  to  ride  with  him  in  London, 
he  is  perfectly  happy  and  content.  He  is  alarmingly  improvident. 
He  would  prefer  keeping  the  whole  family  at  home  doing 
nothing  " — 

"  vSave  laughing  at  his  jokes.  My  father  craves  the  support 
of  a  sympathetic  audience." 

"  Shotovcr  is  worse  than  useless." 

*'  Except  to  the  guileless  Israelite  he  is.  Absolutely  true, 
Louisa." 

"  Guy  would  never  have  gone  into  the  army  when  he  left 
Eton  unless  I  had  insisted  upon  it.  And  it  was  entirely  throui^h 
the  Barkings'  influence — at  my  representation  of  course — that 
Eddie  got  a  berth  in  that  Liverpool  cotton-broker's  business.  I 
am  sure  Alicia  is  very  comfortably  married.  I  know  George 
Winterbotham  is  not  the  least  interesting,  but  he  is  perfectly 
gentlemanlike  and  presentable,  and  so  on,  and  he  makes  her  a 
most  devoted  husband.  And  from  what  Mr.  Barking  heard  the 
other  day  at  the  Club  from  somebody  or  other,  I  forget  who, 
but  someone  connected  with  the  Government,  you  know,  there 
is  every  probability  of  George  getting  that  permanent  under- 
secretaryship." 

"  Did  I  not  start  by  declaring  you  had  achieved  numerous 
successes  ?  "  Ludovic  inquired.  "  Yet  we  stray  from  the  point, 
Louisa.  For  do  I  not  still  remain  ignorant  of  the  root  of  your 
sudden  interest  in  my  friend  Dickie  Calmady?  And  I  thirst  to 
learn  how  you  propose  to  work  him  into  the  triumphant  develop- 
ment of  our  family  fortunes." 

The  proportions  of  Lady  Louisa's  small  mouth  contracted 
still  further  into  an  expression  of  great  decision,  while  she  glanced 
at  the  landscape  reeling  away  from  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage.  In  the  past  twelve  hours  autumn  had  given  place  to 
winter.  The  bare  hedges  showed  black,  while  the  fallen  leaves 
of  the  hedgerow  trees  formed  unsightly  blotches  of  sodden  brown 
and  purple  upon  the  dirty  green  of  the  pastures.  '  Over  all 
brooded  an  opaque,  grey-brown  sky,  sullen  and  impenetrable. 
Lady  Louisa  saw  all  this.  But  she  was  one  of  those  persons 
happily,  for  themselves,  unaffected  by  such  abstractions  as  the 
aspects  of  nature.  Her  purposes  were  immediate  and  practical. 
She  followed  them  with  praiseworthy  persistence.  The  landscape 
merely  engaged  her  eyes  because  she,  just  now,  preferred  looking 
out  of  the  window  to  looking  her  brother  in  the  face. 

"  Something  must  be  done  for  the  younger  girls,"  she 
announced.  "  I  feel  pretty  confident  about  Emily's  future. 
We  need  not  go  into  that.     Maggie,  if  she  marries  at  all — and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  257 

she  really  is  very  useful  at  home,  in  looking  after  the  servants 
and  entertaining,  and  so  on — if  she  marries  at  all,  will  marry  late. 
She  has  no  particular  attractions  as  girls  go.  Her  figure  is  too 
solid,  and  she  talks  too  much.  But  she  will  make  a  very  present- 
able middle-aged  woman  —  sensible,  dependable,  an  excellent 
7Jiaiagere.     Certainly  she  had  better  marry  late." 

"  A  mature  clergyman  when  she  is  rising  forty — a  widowed 
bishop,  for  instance.  Yes,  I  approve  that,"  Mr.  Quayle  rejoined 
reflectively.  "  It  is  well  conceived,  Louisa.  We  must  keep  an 
eye  on  the  Bench  and  carefully  note  any  episcopal  matrimonial 
vacancy.  Bishops  have  a  little  turn,  I  observe,  for  marrying 
somebody  who  is  somebody — specially  €7i  seamdes  voces,  good 
men.  Yes,  it  is  well  thought  of.  \\'ith  careful  steering  we  may 
bring  Maggie  to  anchor  in  a  palace  yet.  Maggie  is  rather 
dogmatic,  she  would  make  not  half  a  bad  Mrs.  Proudie.  So  she 
is  disposed  of,  and  then  ?  " 

For  a  few  seconds  the  lady  held  silent  converse  with  herself. 
At  last  she  addressed  her  companion  in  tones  of  unwonted 
cordiality. 

"  You  are  by  far  the  most  sensible  of  the  family,  Ludovic," 
she  began. 

"  And  in  a  family  so  renowned  for  intellect,  so  conspicuous 
for  '  parts  and  learning,'  as  Macaulay  puts  it,  that  is  indeed  a 
distinction  ! " — Mr.  Quayle  bowed  slightly  in  his  comfortable 
corner.     "  A  thousand  thanks,  Louisa,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  would  not  breathe  a  syllable  of  this  to  any  of  the  others," 
she  continued.  "  You  know  how  the  girls  chatter.  Alicia,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  is  as  bad  as  any  of  them.  They  would  discuss  the 
question  without  intermission — simply,  you  know,  talk  the  whole 
thing  to  death." 

"  Poor  thing  ! —  Yet,  after  all,  what  thing?  "  the  young  man 
inrjuired  urbanely. 

I^ady  Louisa  bit  her  lip.  He  was  very  irritating,  while  she 
was  very  much  in  earnest.  It  was  her  misfortune  usually  to  be 
a  good  deal  in  earnest. 

"There  is  Constance,"  she  remarked,  somewhat  abruptly. 

"  Precisely — there  is  poor,  dear,  innocent,  ratlicr  foolish, 
little  Connie.     It  occurred  to  me  we  might  be  coming  to  that." 

In  his  turn  Mr.  Quayle  fell  silent,  and  contemplated  the 
reeling  landscape.  Pasture  had  given  place  to  wide  stretches  of 
dark  moorland  on  cither  side  the  railway  line,  with  a  pallor  of  sour 
bog  grasses  in  the  hollows.  The  outlook  was  unchccrful.  Per- 
haps it  was  that  which  caused  the  young  man  to  shake  his  head. 
1  recognise  the  brilliancy  of  the  conception,   Louisa.      It 

17 


(I 


258  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

reflects  credit  upon  your  imagination  and — your  daring,"  he  said 
presently.     "  But  you  won't  be  able  to  work  it." 

"  Pray  why  not  ?  "  almost  snapped  Lady  Louisa. 

Mr.  Quayle  settled  himself  back  in  his  corner  again.  His 
handsome  face  was  all  sweetness,  indulgent  though  argument- 
ative.    He  was  nothing,  clearly,  unless  reasonable. 

"  Personally,  I  am  extremely  fond  of  Dickie  Calmady,"  he 
began.  "  I  permit  myself  —  honestly  I  do  —  moments  of 
enthusiasm  regarding  him.  I  should  esteem  the  woman  lucky 
who  married  him.  Yet  I  could  imagine  a  prejudice  might  exist 
in  some  minds — minds  of  a  less  emancipated  and  finely  com- 
prehensive order  than  yours  and  my  own  of  course— against  such 
an  alliance.  Take  my  father's  mind,  for  instance  —  and  un- 
happily my  father  dotes  on  Connie.    And  he  is  more  obstinate 

than  nineteen  dozen well,  I  leave  you  to  fill  in  the  comparison 

mentally,  Louisa.  It  might  be  slightly  wanting  in  filial  respect  to 
put  it  into  words." 

Again  he  shook  his  head  in  pensive  solemnity. 

"  I  give  you  credit  for  prodigious  push  and  tenacity,  for  a  re- 
markable capacity  of  generalship,  in  short.  Yet  I  cannot  disguise 
from  myself  the  certainty  that  you  would  never  square  my  father." 

"But  suppose  she  wishes  it  herself?  Papa  would  deny 
Connie  nothing,"  the  other  objected.  She  was  obliged  to  raise  her 
voice  to  a  point  of  shrillness,  hardly  compatible  with  the  dignity 
of  the  noble  house  of  Fallowfeild,  double  with  all  the  gold  of  all 
the  Barkings,  for  the  train  was  banging  over  the  points  and 
roaring  between  the  platforms  of  a  local  junction.  Mr.  Quayle 
made  a  deprecating  gesture,  put  his  hands  over  his  ears,  and 
again  gently  shook  his  head,  intimating  that  no  person  possessed 
either  of  nerves  or  self-respect  could  be  expected  to  carry  on  a 
conversation  under  existing  conditions.  Lady  Louisa  desisted. 
But,  as  soon  as  the  train  passed  into  the  comparative  quiet  of  the 
open  country,  she  took  up  her  parable  again,  and  took  it  up  in  a 
tone  of  authority. 

"  Of  course  I  admit  there  is  something  to  get  over.  It  would 
be  ridiculous  not  to  admit  that.  And  I  am  always  determined  to 
be  perfectly  straightforward.  I  detest  humbug  of  any  kind.  So 
I  do  not  deny  for  a  moment  that  there  is  something.  Still  it 
would  be  a  very  good  marriage  for  Constance,  a  very  good 
marriage,  indeed.  Even  papa  must  acknowledge  that.  Money, 
position,  age,  everything  of  that  kind,  in  its  favour.  One  could 
not  expect  to  have  all  that  without  some  make-weight.  I 
should  not  regret  it,  for  I  feel  it  might  really  be  bad  for  Connie 
to  have  so  much  without  some  make-weight.     And  I  remarked 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  259 

yesterday — I  could  not  help  remarking  it — that  she  was  very 
much  occupied  about  Sir  Richard  Calmady." 

"Connie  is  a  little  goose,"  Mr.  Quayle  permitted  himself  to 
remark,  and  for  once  there  was  quite  a  sour  edge  to  his  sweetness. 

"  Connie  is  not  quick,  she  is  not  sensitive,"  his  sister 
continued.  "And,  really^,  under  all  the  circumstances,  that 
perhaps  is  just  as  well.  But  she  is  a  good  child,  and  would 
believe  almost  anything  you  told  her.  She  has  an  affectionate  and 
obedient  disposition,  and  she  never  attempts  to  think  for  herself. 
I  don't  believe  it  would  ever  occur  to  her  to  object  to  his — his 
peculiarities,  unless  some  mischievous  person  suggested  it  to  her. 
And  then,  as  I  tell  you,  I  remarked  she  was  very  much  occupied 
about  him." 

Once  again  Mr.  Quayle  sought  counsel  of  the  landscape 
which  once  again  had  changed  in  character.  For  here  civilis- 
ation began  to  trail  her  skirts  very  visibly,  and  the  edges  of  those 
skirts  were  torn  and  frayed,  notably  unhandsome.  The  open 
moorland  had  given  place  to  flat  market-gardens  and  leafless 
orchards  sloppy  with  wet.  Innumerable  cabbages,  innumer- 
able stunted,  black-branched  a[)ple  and  pear  trees,  avenues  of 
dilapidated  pea  and  bean  sticks,  reeled  away  to  right  and 
left.  The  semi-suburban  towns  stretched  forth  long,  rawly-red 
arms  of  ugly,  little,  jerry-built  streets  and  terraces.  Tall  chimneys 
and  unlovely  gasometers  —  these  last  showing  as  collections  of 
some  monstrous  spawn  —  rose  against  the  opaque  sky,  a  sky 
rendered  momentarily  more  opaque,  dirtier  and  more  dingy,  by 
the  masses  of  London  smoke  hanging  along  the  eastern  horizon. 

Usually  Ludovic  knew  his  own  mind  clearly  enough.  The 
atmosphere  of  it  was  very  far  from  being  hazy.  Now  that 
atmosphere  bore  annoying  resemblance  to  the  opacity  obtaining 
overhead  and  along  the  eastern  horizon.  The  young  man's 
sympathies  —  or  were  they  his  prejudices?  —  had  a  convenient 
habit  of  ranging  themselves  immediately  on  one  side  or  other  of 
any  question  presenting  itself  to  him.  But  in  the  present  case 
they  were  mixed.  They  pulled  both  ways,  and  this  vexed 
him.  For  he  liked  to  suppose  himself  very  ripe,  cynical, 
and  disillusioned,  while,  in  good  truth,  sentiment  had  more 
than  a  word  to  say  in  most  of  his  opinions  and  decisions.  Now 
sentiment  ruled  him  strongly  and  pushed  him — but,  unfortunately, 
in  diametrically  ojjposite  directions.  The  sentiment  of  friend- 
ship compelled  him  hitherward.  While  another  sentiment, 
which  he  refused  to  defmc — he  rec'ognised  it  as  wholesome,  yet 
he  was  a  trifle  ashamed  of  it — compelled  him  quite  other-where. 
He  took  refuge  in  an  adroit  begging  of  the  question. 


26o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  After  all  are  you  not  committing  the  fundamental  error  of 
reckoning  without  your  host,  Louisa  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  Connie 
may  be  a  good  deal  occupied  about  Calmady,  but  thereby  may 
only  give  further  proof  of  her  own  silliness.  I  certainly  discovered 
no  particular  sign  of  Calmady  being  occupied  about  Connie. 
He  was  very  much  more  occupied  about  the  fair  cousin,  Helen  de 
Vallorbes,  than  about  any  one  of  us,  my  illustrious  self  included, 
as  far  as  I  could  see." 

In  her  secret  soul  his  hearer  had  to  own  this  statement  just. 
But  she  kept  the  owning  to  herself,  and,  with  a  rapidity  upon 
which  she  could  not  help  congratulating  herself,  instituted  a 
flanking  movement. 

"  You  hear  all  the  gossip,  Ludovic,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  it 
is  no  good  my  asking  Mr.  Barking  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
Even  if  he  heard  it  he  would  not  remember  it.  His  mind  is  too 
much  engaged.  If  a  woman  marries  a  man  with  large  political 
interests  she  must  just  give  herself  to  them  generously.  It  is 
very  interesting,  and  one  feels,  of  course,  one  is  helping  to  make 
history.  But  still  one  has  to  sacrifice  something.  I  hear  next  to 
nothing  of  what  is  going  on — the  gossip,  I  mean.  And  so  tell  me, 
what  do  you  hear  about  her,  about  Madame  de  Vallorbes  ?  " 

"  At  first  hand  only  that  which  you  must  know  perfectly  well 
yourself,  my  dear  Louisa. — Didn't  you  sit  opposite  to  her  at 
luncheon,  yesterday  ? — That  she  is  a  vastly  good-looking  and 
attractive  woman." 

"  At  second  hand,  then  ?  " 

"  At  second  hand  ?  Oh  !  at  second  hand  I  know  various 
amiable  little  odds  and  ends  such  as  are  commonly  reported  by 
the  uncharitable  and  censorious,"  Ludovic  answered  mildly. 
"  Probably  more  than  half  of  those  little  treasures  are  pure 
fiction,  generated  by  envy,  conceived  by  malice." 

"  Pray,  Ludovic  !  "  his  sister  exclaimed.  But  she  recovered 
herself, — and  added  : — "  You  may  as  well  tell  me  all  the  same.  I 
think,  under  the  circumstances,  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  hear." 

"You  really  wish  to  hear?  Well,  I  give  it  you  for  what  it 
is  worth.  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  a  single  item.  For  all 
we  can  tell,  nice,  kind  friends  may  be  recounting  kindred 
anecdotes  of  Alicia  and  the  blameless  Winterbotham,  or  even  of 
you,  Louisa,  and  Mr.  Barking." 

Mr.  Quayle  fixed  a  glance  of  surpassing  graciousness  upon 
his  sister  as  he  uttered  these  agreeable  suggestions,  and  fervid 
curiosity  alone  enabled  her  to  resist  a  rejoinder  and  to  maintain 
a  dignified  silence. 

"  It  is  said — and  this  probably  is  true — that  she  never  cared  two 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  261 

straws  for  de  Vallorbes,  but  was  jockeyed  into  the  marriage — just 
as  you  might  jockey  Constance,  you  know,  Louisa — by  her  mother, 
who  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  somewhat  frisky  matron  with 
a  keen  eye  to  the  main  chance.  She  is  not  quite  all,  I  understand, 
a  tender  heart  could  desire  in  the  way  of  a  female  parent.  It  is 
further  said  that  la  belle  Helhie  makes  the  dollars  fly  even  more 
freely  than  did  de  Vallorbes  in  his  best  days,  and  he  has  the 
credit  of  having  been  something  of  a  viveur.  He  knew  not 
only  his  Paris,  but  his  Baden-Baden,  and  his  Naples,  and  various 
other  warm  corners  where  great  and  good  men  do  commonly 
congregate.  It  is  added  that  la  belle  Helcne  already  gives  promise 
of  being  playful  in  other  ways  besides  that  of  expenditure.  And 
that  de  Vallorbes  has  been  heard  to  lament,  openly,  that  he  is  not 
a  native  of  some  enlightened  country  in  which  the  divorce  court 
charitably  intervenes  to  sever  over-hard  connubial  knots.  In 
short,  it  is  rumoured  that  de  Vallorbes  is  not  a  conspicuous 
example  of  the  wildly  happy  husband." 

"  In  short,  she  is  not  respec  " — 

But  the  young  man  held  up  his  hands  and  cried  out  feelingly: — 

"  Don't,  pray  don't,  my  dear  Louisa.  Let  us  walk  delicately 
as  Agag — my  father's  morning  ministrations  to  the  maids  again  ! 
For  how,  as  I  pointed  out  just  now,  do  we  know  what  insidious 
little  tales  may  not  be  in  circulation  regarding  yourself  and 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  you  ? " 

Ludovic  Quayle  turned  his  head  and  once  more  looked  out 
of  the  window,  his  beautiful  mouth  visited  by  a  slightly  malicious 
smile.  The  train  was  sliding  onward  above  crowded,  sordid 
courts  and  narrow  alleys,  festering,  as  it  seemed,  with  a  very 
plague  of  poverty-stricken  and  unwholesome  humanity.  Here 
the  line  runs  parallel  to  the  river — sullen  to-day,  blotted  with 
black  floats  and  lines  of  grimy  barges,  which  straining,  smoke- 
vomiting  steam-tugs  towed  slowly  against  a  strong  flowing  tide. 
On  the  opposite  bank  the  heavy  masses  of  the  Abbey,  the  long 
decorated  faf:ade  and  towers  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  stood 
out  ghostly  and  livid  in  a  gleam  of  frail,  unrelated  sunshine 
against  the  murk  of  the  smoky  sky. 

"I  should  have  supposed  Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  steady," 
Lady  Louisa  remarked,  inconsequently  and  rather  stiffly. — 
Ludovic  really  was  exasperating. 

"Steady?  Oh!  perfectly.  Poor,  dear  chap,  he  hasn't  had 
much  chance  of  being  anything  else  as  yet." 

"  Still,  of  course,  I>ady  Calmady  would  prefer  his  being  settled. 
Clearly  it  would  he  much  better  in  every  way.  All  things 
considered,  he  is  certainly  one  of  the  people  who  should  marry 


262  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

young.  And  Connie  would  be  an  excellent  marriage  for  him, 
exceUent — thoroughly  suitable,  better,  really,  than  on  the  face  of 
it  he  could  hope  for. — Ludovic,  just  look  out  please  and  see  if 
the  carriage  is  here.  Pocock  always  loses  her  head  at  a  terminus, 
and  misses  the  men-servants.  Yes,  there  is  Frederic — with  his 
back  to  the  train,  looking  the  wrong  way,  of  course.  He  really 
is  too  stupid." 

Mr.  Quayle,  however,  succeeded  in  attracting  the  footman's 
attention,  and,  assisted  by  that  functionary  and  the  lean  and 
anxious  Pocock — her  arms  full  of  bags  and  umbrellas — conveyed 
his  sister  out  of  the  railway  carriage  and  into  the  waiting 
brougham.  She  graciously  offered  to  put  him  down  at  his 
rooms,  in  St.  James's  Place,  on  her  way  to  the  Barking  mansion 
in  Albert  (late,  but  the  young  man  declined  that  honour. 

"Good-bye,  Louisa,"  he  said,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  open 
window  of  the  brougham  and  thereby  presenting  the  back  view 
of  an  irreproachably  cut  overcoat  and  trousers  to  the  passers-by. 
"I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  most  interesting  and  instructive 
journey.  Your  efforts  to  secure  the  prosperity  of  the  family  are 
wholly  praiseworthy.  I  commend  them.  I  have  a  profound 
respect  for  your  generalship.  Still,  pauper  though  I  am,  I  am 
willing  to  lay  you  a  hundred  to  one  in  golden  guineas  that  you 
will  never  square  papa." 

Subsequently  the  young  man  bestowed  himself  in  a  hansom, 
and  rattled  away  in  the  wake  of  the  Barking  equipage  down  the 
objectionably  steep  hill  which  leads  from  the  roar  and  turmoil  of 
the  station  into  the  Waterloo  Bridge  road. 

"  I  might  have  offered  heavier  odds,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  for 
never,  never  will  she  square  papa  ! " 

And,  not  without  a  slight  sense  of  shame,  he  was  conscious 
that  he  made  this  reflection  with  a  measure  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CO.V'lWIXlXc;    SAMPLKS    BOTH    OF    l^AR'l'HLY    AND    HEAVENLY    LOVE 

TV''  ATHERINE  stood  in  the  central  space  of  the  great,  state 
J\^  bedroom.  It  was  just  upon  midnight,  yet  she  still  wore 
her  jewels  and  her  handsome,  trailing,  black,  velvet  dress.  She 
was  very  tired.  But  that  tiredness  proceeded  less  from  physical 
than  m.untal  weariness.  This  she  recognised,  and  foresaw  that 
weariness  of  this    character  was  not  likely  to  fmd  relief  and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  263 

extinction  within  the  shelter  of  the  curtains  of  the  stately  bed, 
whereon  the  ancient  Persian  legend  of  the  flight  of  the  Hart 
through  the  tangled  Forest  of  This  Life  was  so  deftly  and  quaintly 
embroidered.  For,  unhappily  to-night,  the  leopard,  Care,  followed 
very  close  behind.  And  Katherine,  taking  the  ancient  legend 
as  very  literally  descriptive  of  her  existing  state  of  mind,  feared 
that,  should  she  undress  and  seek  the  shelter  of  the  rose-lined 
curtains  the  leopard  would  seek  it  also ;  and,  crouching  at  her 
feet,  his  evil,  yellow  eyes  would  gaze  into  her  own,  wide  open,  all 
through  that  which  remained  of  the  night.  The  night,  more- 
over, was  very  wild.  A  westerly  gale,  with  now  and  again 
tumultuous  violence  of  rain,  rattled  the  many  panes  of  the 
windows,  wailed  in  every  crevice  of  door  and  casement,  roared 
through  the  mile -long  elm  avenue  below,  and  roared  in  the 
chimneys  above.  The  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air  was  let 
loose,  and  announced  his  presence  as  with  the  shout  of  battle. 
.Sleep  was  out  of  the  question  under  present  conditions  and  in 
her  present  humour.  Therefore  Lady  Calmady  had  dismissed 
Clara, — now  promoted  to  the  dignified  office  of  lady's-maid, — 
and  that  bright-eyed  and  devoted  waiting-woman  had  departed 
reluctant,  almost  in  tears,  protesting  that : — "  It  was  quite  too 
bad,  for  her  ladyship  was  being  regularly  worn  out  with  all  the 
talking  and  company.  And  she,  for  her  part,  should  be  heartily 
glad  when  the  entertaining  was  over  and  they  were  all  comfort- 
ably to  themselves  again." 

Nor  could  Katherine  honestly  assert  that  she  would  be 
altogether  sorry  when  the  hour  struck,  to-morrow,  for  the 
departure  of  her  guests.  For  it  appeared  to  her  that,  notwith- 
standing the  courtesy  and  affection  of  her  brother  and  the 
triumphant  charm  of  her  niece,  a  spirit  of  unrest  had  entered 
Brockhurst  along  with  their  entry.  Would  that  same  spirit 
depart  along  with  their  departing?  She  questioned  it.  She' 
was  oppressed  by  a  fear  that  spirit  of  unrest  had  come  to 
stay.  And  so  it  was  that  as  she  walked  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  lofty,  white-panelled  room,  for  all  the  rage  and  fury  of  the 
storm  without,  she  still  heard  the  soft  padding  of  Care,  the 
leopard,  close  behind. 

Then  a  singular  desolation  and  sense  of  homeles.sness  came 
upon  Katherine.  Turn  where  she  would  there  seemed  no  com- 
f(jrt,  no  escape,  no  sure  promise  of  eventual  rest.  Things  human 
and  material  were  emptied  not  of  joy  only,  but  of  invitation  to 
effort.  I'or  something  had  happened  from  which  there  was  no 
going  back.  A  fair  woman  from  a  far  country  had  come  and 
looked  upon  her  son,  with  the  inevitaijle  result,  that  youth  had 


264  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

called  to  youth.  And  though  the  foir  woman  in  question,  being 
already  wedded  wife, —  K.itheiine  was  rather  pathetically  pure- 
minded, — could  not  in  any  dangerously  practical  manner  steal 
away  her  son's  heart,  yet  she  would,  only  too  probably,  prepare 
that  heart  and  awaken  in  it  desires  of  subsequent  stealing  away 
on  the  part  of  some  other  fair  woman,  as  yet  unknown,  whose 
heart  Dickie  would  do  his  utmost  to  steal  in  exchange.  And 
this  filled  her  with  anxiety  and  far-reaching  fears,  not  only 
because  it  was  bitter  to  have  some  woman  other  than  herself 
hold  the  chief  place  in  her  son's  affections,  but  because  she — as 
John  Knott,  even  as  Ludovic  Quayle,  though  from  quite  other 
causes — could  not  but  apprehend  possibilities  of  danger,  even  of 
disaster,  surrounding  all  question  of  love  and  marriage  in  the 
strange  and  unusual  case  of  Richard  Calmady. 

And  thinking  of  these  things,  her  sensibilities  heightened  and 
intensified  by  fatigue  and  circumstances  of  time  and  place,  a 
certain  feverishness  possessed  her.  That  bed-chamber  of  many 
memories — ^  exquisite  and  tragic  —  became  intolerable  to  her. 
She  opened  the  double  doors  and  passed  into  the  Chapel-Room 
beyond,  the  light,  thrown  by  the  tall  wax-candles  set  in  silver 
branches  upon  her  toilet  -  table,  passing  with  her  through  the 
widely  open  doors  and  faintly  illuminating  the  near  end  of  the 
great  room.  There  was  other  subdued  light  in  the  room  as  well. 
For  a  glowing  mass  of  coal  and  wood  still  remained  in  the 
brass  basket  upon  the  hearth ;  and  the  ruddy  brightness  of 
it  touched  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling,  glowed  on  the  polished 
corners  and  carvings  of  tables,  what-nots,  and  upon  the  mahogany 
frames  of  solid,  Georgian  sofas  and  chairs. 

At  first  sight,  notwithstanding  the  roaring  of  wind  and 
ripping  of  rain  without,  there  seemed  offer  of  comfort  in  .this 
calm  and  spacious  place,  the  atmosphere  of  it  sweet  with  bowls 
of  autumn  violets  and  greenhouse-grown  roses.  Katherine  sat 
down  in  Richard's  low  arm-chair  and  gazed  into  the  crimson 
heart  of  the  fire.  She  made  a  valiant  effort  to  put  away  haunt- 
ing fears,  to  resume  her  accustomed  attitude  of  stoicism,  of 
tranquil,  if  slightly  defiant,  courage.  But  Care,  the  leopard, 
refused  to  be  driven  away.  Surely,  stealthily,  he  had  followed 
her  out  of  her  bed-chamber  and  now  crouched  at  her  side, 
making  his  presence  felt  so  that  all  illusion  of  comfort  speedily 
fled.  She  knew  that  she  was  alone,  consciously  and  bitterly 
alone,  waking  in  the  midst  of  the  sleeping  house.  No  footstep 
would  echo  up  the  stairs,  hot  to  find  her.  No  voice  would  call 
her  name,  in  anxiety  for  her  well-being  or  in  desire.  It  seemed 
to  Katherine  that  a  desert  lay  outstretched  about  her  on  every 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  265 

hand,  while  she  sat  desolate  with  Care  for  her  sole  companion. 
She  recognised  that  her  existing  isolation  was,  in  a  measure  at 
all  events,  the  natural  consequence  of  her  own  fortitude  and 
ability.  She  had  ruled  with  so  strong  and  discreet  a  hand 
that  the  order  she  had  established,  the  machinery  she  had  set 
agoing,  could  now  keep  going  without  her.  Hence  her  lone- 
liness. And  that  loneliness  as  she  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  while 
the  wind  raved  without,  was  dreadful  to  her,  peopled  with 
phantoms  she  dared  not  look  upon.  For,  not  only  the  ac- 
customed burden  of  her  motherhood  was  upon  her,  but  that 
other  unaccustomed  burden  of  admitted  middle-age.  And  this 
other  burden,  which  it  is  appointed  a  woman  shall  bear  while 
her  heart  often  is  still  all  too  sadly  young,  dragged  her  down. 
The  conviction  pressed  home  on  her  that  for  her  the  splendid 
game  was  indeed  over,  and  that,  for  very  pride's  sake,  she  must 
voluntarily  stand  aside  and  submit  to  rank  herself  with  things 
grown  obsolete,  with  fashions  past  and  out  of  date. 

Katherine  rose  to  her  feet,  filled,  for  the  moment,  by  an 
immense  compassion  for  her  own  womanhood,  by  an  over- 
mastering longing  for  sympathy.  She  was  so  tired  of  the 
long  struggle  with  sorrow,  so  tired  of  her  own  attitude  of  sus- 
tained courage.  And  now,  when  surely  a  little  respite  and 
repose  might  have  been  granted  her,  it  seemed  that  a  new 
order  of  courage  was  demanded  of  her — a  courage  passive 
rather  than  active,  a  courage  of  relinquishment  and  self-efface- 
ment. That  was  a  little  too  much.  For  all  her  valiant  spirit, 
she  shrank  away.     She  grew  weak.     She  could  not  face  it. 

And  so  it  happened  that  to-night — as  once  long  ago,  when 
poor  Richard  suffered  his  hour  of  mental  and  physical  torment  at 
the  skilful,  yet  relentless,  hands  of  Dr.  Knott,  in  the  bed-chamber 
near  by — Katherine's  anguish  and  revolt  found  expression  in  rest- 
less pacings,  and  those  pacings  brought  her  to  the  chapel  door. 
It  stood  ajar.  Before  the  altar  the  three  hanging  lamps  showed 
each  its  tongue  of  crimson  flame.  A  whiteness  of  flowers,  set 
in  golden  vases  upon  the  re-table,  was  just  distinguishable.  But 
the  delicately  carved  spires  and  canopies  of  stalls,  the  fair  pictured 
saints,  and  figure  of  the  risen  Christ — His  wounded  feet  shining 
like  pearls  upon  the  azure  floor  of  heaven — in  the  east  window, 
were  lost  in  soft,  thick,  all-pervading  gloom.  The  place  was 
curiously  still,  as  though  waiting  silently,  in  solemn  and  strained 
expectation  for  the  accomplishment  of  some  mysterious  visita- 
tion. And,  all  the  while  without,  the  gale  flung  itself  wailing 
against  the  angles  of  the  masonry,  and  the  rain  beat  upf)n  the  glass 
of  the  high,  narrow  windows  as  with  a  passion  of  despairing  tears. 


266  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

For  some  time  Katherine  waited  in  the  doonvay,  a  sombre 
figure  in  her  trailing,  velvet  dress.  The  hushed  stillness  of  the 
chapel,  the  confusion  and  clamour  of  the  tempest,  taken  thus  in 
connection,  were  very  telling.  They  exercised  a  strong  influence 
over  her  already  somewhat  exalted  imagination.  Could  it  be, 
she  asked  herself,  that  these  typified  the  rest  of  the  religious,  and 
the  unrest  of  the  secular  life  ?  Julius  March  would  interpret  the 
contrast  they  afforded  in  some  such  manner  no  doubt.  And 
what  if  Julius,  after  all,  were  right  ?  What  if,  shutting  God  out 
of  the  heart,  you  also  shut  that  heart  out  from  all  peaceful  dwell- 
ing places,  leaving  it  homeless,  at  the  mercy  of  every  passing 
storm  ?  Katherine  was  bruised  in  spirit.  The  longing  for  some 
sure  refuge,  some  abiding  city  was  dominant  in  her.  The  needs 
of  her  soul,  so  long  ignored  and  repudiated,  asserted  themselves. 
Yes,  what  if  Julius  were  right,  and  if  content  and  happiness — the 
only  happiness  which  has  in  it  the  grace  of  continuance — con- 
sisted in  submission  to,  and  glad  acquiescence  in,  the  will  of  God  ? 

Thus  did  she  muse,  gazing  questioningly  at  the  whiteness  of 
the  altar  flowers  and  those  steady  tongues  of  flame,  hearing  the 
silence,  as  of  reverent  waiting,  which  dwelt  in  the  place.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  give,  in  this  her  hour  of  weakness,  that 
which  she  had  refused  in  the  hours  of  clear-seeing  strength, — to 
let  go,  because  she  was  alone  and  the  unloveliness  of  age  claimed 
her,  that  sense  of  bitter  injury  and  injustice  which  she  had  hugged 
to  her  breast  when  young  and  still  aware  of  her  empire, — would 
not  such  action  be  contemptibly  poor  spirited?  She  was  no 
child  to  be  humbled  into  confession  by  the  rod,  frightened  into 
submission  by  the  dark.  To  abase  herself,  in  the  hope  of  re- 
ceiving spiritual  consolation,  appeared  to  her  as  an  act  of  dis- 
loyalty to  her  dead  love  and  her  maimed  and  crippled  son.  She 
turned  away  with  a  rather  superb  lift  of  her  beautiful  head,  and 
went  back  to  her  own  bed-chamber  again.  She  hardened  herself  in 
opposition,  putting  the  invitations  of  grace  from  her  as  she  might 
have  put  those  of  temptation.  She  would  yield  to  weakness,  to 
feverish  agitations  and  aimless  longings,  no  more.  Whether  sleep 
elected  to  visit  her  or  not,  she  would  undress  and  seek  her  bed. 

But  hardly  had  she  closed  the  door  and,  standing  before  her 
toilet-table,  begun  to  unclasp  the  pearls  from  her  throat  and 
bracelets  from  her  wrists,  than  a  sound,  quite  other  than  agree- 
able or  reassuring,  saluted  her  ears  from  close  by.  It  proceeded 
from  the  room  next  door,  now  unoccupied,  since  Richard,  some 
five  or  six  years  ago,  jealous  of  the  dignity  of  his  youth,  had 
petitioned  to  be  permitted  to  remove  himself  and  his  possessions 
to  the  suite  of  rooms  immediately  below.     This  comprised  the 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  267 

Giin-Room,  a  bed  and  dressing  room,  and  a  fourth  room,  connect- 
ing with  the  offices,  which  came  in  handy  for  his  valet.  Since 
his  decHne  upon  this  more  commodious  apartment,  the  old  nursery 
had  stood  vacant.  Katherine  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
touch  it.  It  was  furnished  now  as  in  Dickie's  childish  days, 
when,  night  and  morning,  she  had  visited  it  to  make  sure  of  her 
darling's  health  and  safety. 

And  it  was  in  this  shrine  of  tender  recollections  that  dis- 
quieting sounds  now  arose.  Hard  claws  rattled  upon  the  boarded 
spaces  of  the  floor.  Some  creature  snored  and  panted  against 
the  bottom  of  the  door,  pushed  it  with  so  heavy  a  weight  that 
the  panels  creaked,  flung  itself  down  uneasily,  then  moved  to  and 
fro  again,  with  that  harsh  rattling  of  claws.  The  image  of  Care, 
the  leopard,  as  embroidered  upon  the  curtains  of  her  bed,  was 
so  present  to  Katherine's  imagination  to-night  that,  for  a  moment, 
she  lost  her  hold  on  probability  and  common  sense.  It  appeared 
to  her  that  the  anxieties  and  perturbations  which  oppressed  her 
had  taken  on  bodily  form,  and,  in  the  shape  of  a  devouring  beast, 
besieged  her  chamber  door.  The  conception  was  grisly.  Both 
mind  and  body  being  rather  overstrained,  it  filled  her  with  some- 
thing approaching  panic.  No  one  was  within  call.  To  rouse  her 
brother,  or  Julius,  she  must  make  a  tour  of  half  the  house.  Again 
the  creature  pushed  against  the  creaking  panels,  and,  then,  pant- 
ing and  snoring,  began  ripping  away  the  matting  from  the  door-sill. 

The  terror  of  the  unknown  is,  after  all,  greater  than  that  of 
the  known.  It  was  improbable,  though  the  hour  was  late  and 
the  night  wild,  that  savage  beasts  or  cares  incarnate  should 
actually  be  in  possession  of  Dickie's  disused  nursery.  Katherine 
braced  herself  and  turned  the  handle.  Still  the  vision  disclosed 
by  the  opening  door  was  at  first  sight  monstrous  enough.  A  mov- 
ing mass  of  dirty  white,  low  down  against  the  encircling  darkness, 
bandy  legs,  and  great  grinning  mouth.  The  bull-dog  stood  up, 
whining,  fawning  upon  her,  thrusting  his  heavy  head  into  her  hand. 

"Why,  ("amp,  good  old  friend,  what  brings  you  here?  Are 
you,  too,  homeless  to-night?  But  why  have  you  deserted  your 
master?" 

And  then  Lady  Calmady's  panic  fears  took  on  another 
aspect.  Far  from  being  allayed  they  were  increased.  An 
apprehension  of  something  actively  evil  abroad  in  the  great, 
sleeping  house  assailed  her.  She  tr(:ml)lcd  from  head  to  foot. 
And  yet,  even  while  she  shrank  and  trembled,  her  courage  re- 
awoke.  For  she  perceived  that  as  yet  she  need  not  rank  herself 
wholly  among  fashions  passed  and  things  grown  obsolete.  She 
had  her  place  and  value  still.     She  was  wanted,  she  was  called 


268  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

for — that  she  knew — though  by  whom  wanted  and  for  what 
purpose  she,  as  yet,  knew  not. 

The  bull-dog,  meanwhile,  his  heavy  head  carried  low,  his 
crooked  tail  drooping,  trotted  slowly  away  into  the  darkness  and 
then  trotted  back.  He  squatted  upon  his  haunches,  looking  up 
with  anxious,  bloodshot  eyes.  He  trotted  away  again,  and  again 
returned  and  stood  waiting,  his  whole  aspect  eloquent  in  its  dumb 
appeal.  He  implored  her  to  follow,  and  Katherine,  fetching  one 
of  the  silver  candlesticks  from  her  dressing-table,  obeyed. 

She  followed  her  ugly,  faithful  guide  across  the  vacant  dis- 
used nursery,  and  on  down  the  uncarpeted  turning  staircase 
which  opens  into  the  square  lobby  outside  the  Gun-Room.  The 
diamond  panes  of  the  staircase  windows  chattered  in  their  leaded 
frames,  and  the  wind  shrieked  in  the  spouts,  and  angles,  and 
carved  stonework,  of  the  inner  courtyard  as  she  passed.  The 
gale  was  at  its  height,  loud  and  insistent.  Yet  the  many-toned 
violence  of  it  seemed  to  bear  strange  and  intimate  relation — as 
that  of  a  great  orchestra  to  a  single  dominant  human  voice — to 
the  subtle,  evil  influence  which  she  felt  to  be  at  large  within  the 
sleeping  house.  And  so,  without  pausing  to  consider  the  wisdom 
of  her  action,  pushed  by  the  conviction  that  something  of  pro- 
found import  was  taking  place,  and  that  someone,  or  something, 
must  be  saved  by  her  from  threatening  danger,  Katherine  threw 
open  the  Gun-Room  door. 

The  shout  of  the  storm  seemed  far  away.  This  place  was 
quick  with  stillness  too,  with  the  hush  of  waiting  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  some  mysterious  event  or  visitation,  even  as  the 
dark  chapel  upstairs  had  been.  Only  here  moving  effect  of  soft, 
brilliant  light,  of  caressing  warmth,  of  vague,  insidious  fragrance 
met  her.  Katherine  Calmady  had  only  known  passion  in  its 
purest  and  most  legitimate  form.  It  had  been  for  her,  innocent 
of  all  grossness,  or  suggestion  of  degradation,  fair  and  lovely  and 
natural,  revelation  of  highest  and  most  enchanting  secrets.  But 
having  once  known  it  in  its  fulness,  she  could  not  fail  to  recognise 
its  presence,  even  though  it  wore  a  diabolic,  rather  than  angelic 
face.  That  passion  met  her  now,  exultant,  effulgent,  along  with 
that  light  and  heat  and  fragrance,  she  did  not  for  an  instant 
doubt.  And  the  splendour  of  its  near  neighbourhood  turned  her 
faint  with  dread  and  with  poignant  memories.  She  paused  upon 
the  threshold,  supporting  herself  with  one  hand  against  the  cold, 
stone  jamb  of  the  arched  doorway,  while  in  the  other  she  held 
the  massive  candlestick  and  its  flickering,  draught-driven  lights. 

A  mist  was  before  her  eyes,  a  singing  in  her  ears,  so  that  she 
had  much  ado  to  see  clearly  and  reckon  justly  with  that  which 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  269 

she  did  see.  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  clothed  in  a  flowing,  yet 
clinging,  silken  garment  of  turquoise,  shot  with  blue  purple  and 
shimmering  glaucous  green — a  garment  in  colour  such  as  that  with 
which  the  waves  of  Adriatic  might  have  clothed  the  rosy  limbs  of 
new-born  Aphrodite,  as  she  rose  from  the  cool,  translucent  sea- 
deeps — knelt  upon  the  tiger-skin  before  the  dancing  fire.  Her 
hands  grasped  the  two  arms  of  Richard's  chair.  She  leaned 
down  right  across  it,  the  hnes  and  curves  of  her  beautiful  body 
discernible  under  her  delicate  draperies.  The  long,  open  sleeves 
of  her  dress  fell  away  from  her  outstretched  arms,  showing  them 
in  their  completeness  from  wrist  to  shoulder.  Her  head  was 
thrown  back,  so  that  her  rounded  throat  stood  out,  and  the  pure 
line  of  her  lower  jaw  was  salient.  Her  eyes  were  half  closed, 
while  all  the  mass  of  her  honey-coloured  hair  was  gathered  low 
down  on  the  nape  of  her  neck  into  a  net  of  golden  thread.  A 
golden,  netted  girdle  was  knotted  loosely  about  her  loins,  the 
tasselk-d  ends  of  it  dragging  upon  the  floor.  She  wore  no  jewels, 
nor  were  they  needed,  for  the  loveliness  of  her  person,  discovered 
rather  than  concealed  by  those  changeful  sea-blue  draperies,  was 
already  dangerously  potent. 

All  this  Katherine  saw — a  radiant  vision  of  youth,  an  incarna- 
tion, not  of  care  and  haunting  fears,  but  of  pleasure  and  haunting 
delights.  And  she  saw  more  than  this.  For  in  the  depths  of 
that  long,  low  arm-chair  Richard  sat,  stifily  erect,  his  face  dead 
white,  thin,  and  strained — Richard,  as  she  had  never  beheld  him 
before,  though  she  knew  the  face  well  enough.  It  was  his 
father's  face  as  she  had  seen  it  on  her  marriage  night,  and  on  his 
death  night  too,  when  his  fingers  had  been  clasped  about  her 
throat  to  the  point  of  strangulation.  Katherine  dared  look  no 
longer.  Her  heart  stood  still.  Shame  and  anger  took  her,  and 
along  with  these  an  immense  nostalgia  for  that  which  had  once 
been  and  was  not.  Her  instinct  was  of  flight.  But  Camp  trotted 
forward,  growling,  and  scjuatted  between  the  pedestals  of  the 
library  table,  his  red  eyes  blinking  sullenly  in  the  square  shadow. 
Involuntarily  Katherine  followed  him  part  way  across  the  room. 

Richard  looked  full  at  his  cousin,  absorbed,  rigid,  an  amaze- 
ment of  ([uestion  in  his  eyes.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved. 
But  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  absorption  was  less  complete.  She 
started  slightly  and  half  turned  her  head. 

"Ah!  there  is  that  dog  again,"  she  said  "What  has 
brought  him  back?     He  hates  me." 

"Damn  the  dog!"  Richard  exclaimed,  hoarsely  under  his 
breath.     'J'hen  he  said  : — "  Helen,  Helen,  you  know" — 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  hud  turned  her  head  yet  farther, 


270  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  her  arched  eyehds  opened  quite  wide  for  once,  while  she 
smiled  a  little,  her  lips  parting  and  revealing  her  pretty  teeth 
tightly  set. 

"  Ah  !  the  advent  of  the  bull-dog  explains  itself,"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  Here  is  Aunt  Katherine  herself!  " 

Slowly,  and  with  an  inimitable  grace,  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
Her  long,  winged  sleeves  floated  back  into  place,  covering  her  bare 
arms.  Her  composure  was  astonishing,  even  to  herself.  Yet  her 
breath  came  a  trifle  quick  as  she  contemplated  Lady  Calmady 
with  the  same  enigmatic  smile,  her  chin  carried  high — the  finest 
suggestion  of  challenge  and  insolence  in  it  —  her  eyes  still 
unusually  wide  open  and  startlingly  bright. 

"  Richard  holds  a  little  court  to-night,"  she  continued  airily, 
"thanks  to  the  storm.  You  also  have  come  to  seek  the  pro- 
tection of  his  presence  it  appears.  Aunt  Katherine.  Indeed,  I 
am  not  surprised,  for  you  certainly  brew  very  wild  weather  at 
Brockhurst,  at  times." 

Something  in  the  young  lady's  bearing  had  restored 
Katherine's  self-control. 

"The  wind  is  going  down,"  she  replied  calmly.  "The  storm 
need  not  alarm  you,  or  keep  you  watching  any  longer,  Helen." 

"  Ah  !  pardon  me — you  know  you  are  accustomed  to  these 
tempests,"  the  younger  woman  rejoined.  "  To  me  it  still  sounds 
more  than  sufficiently  violent." 

"  Yes,  but  merely  on  this  side  of  the  house,  where  Richard's 
and  my  rooms  are  situated.  The  wind  has  shifted,  and  I  believe 
on  your  side  you  will  suffer  no  further  disturbance.  You  will 
find  it  quite  quiet.  Then,  moreover,  you  have  to  rise  early 
to-morrow — or  rather  to-day.  You  have  a  long  journey  before 
you  and  should  secure  all  the  rest  you  can." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  gathered  her  silken  draperies  about  her 
absently.  For  a  moment  she  looked  down  at  the  tiger-skin, 
then  back  at  Lady  Calmady. 

"Ah  yes  !"  she  said,  "it  is  thoughtful  of  you  to  remind  me 
of  that.  To-day  I  start  on  my  homeward  journey.  It  should 
give  me  very  much  pleasure,  should  it  not?  But — do  not  be 
shocked.  Aunt  Katherine — I  confess  I  am  not  altogether  en- 
raptured at  the  prospect.  I  have  been  too  happy,  too  kindly 
treated,  here  at  Brockhurst,  for  it  to  be  other  than  a  sorrow  to 
me  to  depart." 

She  turned  to  Richard,  her  expression  serious,  intimate, 
appealirig.  Then  she  shook  back  her  fair  head,  and  as  though 
in  obedience  to  an  irresistible  movement  of  tenderness,  stooped 
down  swiftly  over  him — seeming  to  drown  him  in  the  shimmering 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  271 

waves  of  some  azure,  and  thin,  clear  green,  and  royal,  blue-purple 
sea — while  she  kissed  him  full  and  daringly  upon  the  mouth. 

"  Good-night,  good-bye,  dear  Dickie,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  good- 
bye— for  I  almost  hope  I  may  not  see  you  in  the  morning.  It 
would  be  a  little  chilly  and  inadequate,  any  other  farewell  after 
this.  I  am  grateful  to  you. — And  remember,  I  too  am  among 
those  who,  to  their  sorrow,  never  forget." 

She  approached  Lady  Calmady,  her  manner  natural,  un- 
abashed, playful  even,  and  gay. 

"See,  I  am  ready  to  go  to  bed  like  a  good  child,  Aunt 
Katherine,"  she  said,  "  supported  by  your  assurance  that  my  side 
of  the  house  is  no  longer  rendered  terrific  by  wind  and  rain. 
But  —  I  am  so  distressed  to  trouble  you — but  all  the  lamps  are 
out,  and  I  am  none  too  sure  of  my  way.  It  would  be  a  rather 
tragic  ending  to  my  happy  visit  if  I  incontinently  lost  myself  and 
wandered  till  dawn,  disconsolate,  up  and  down  the  passages  and 
stairways  of  Richard's  magnificent  house.  I  might  even  wander 
in  here  by  mistake  again,  and  that  would  be  unpardonably  indis- 
creet, wouldn't  it?  So,  will  you  light  me  to  my  own  quarters, 
Aunt  Katherine  ?  Thank  you — how  charmingly  kind  and  sweet 
you  are  ! " 

As  she  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes  moved  lightly  away  and 
passed  on  to  the  lobby,  the  heels  of  her  pretty,  cloth-of-gold  slippers 
ringing  quite  sharply  on  the  grey,  stone  quarries  without.  And, 
even  as  a  little  while  back  she  had  followed  the  heavy-headed 
and  ungainly  bull-dog,  so  now  Lady  Calmady,  in  her  trailing, 
black,  velvet  dress,  silver  candlestick  in  hand,  followed  this 
radiant,  fleet-footed  creature,  whose  every  movement  was 
eloquent  of  youth  and  health  and  an  almost  prodigal  joy  of 
living.  Neither  woman  spoke  as  they  crossed  the  lobby,  and 
jjassed  the  pierced  and  arcaded  stone  screen  which  divides  the 
outer  from  the  inner  hall.  Now  and  again  the  flickering  candle- 
light glinted  on  the  younger  woman's  girdle  or  the  net  which 
controlled  the  soft  masses  of  her  honey-coloured  hair.  Now  and 
again  a  draught  taking  the  folds  of  her  silken  raiment  blew  it  hither 
and  thither,  disclosing  her  beautiful  arms  or  quick-moving  slippered 
feet.  She  was  clothed  with  splendour  of  the  sea,  crowntd,  and 
shod,  and  girt  about  the  loins,  with  gold.  Atid  she  lied  on  silentl)', 
till  the  wide,  shallow-stepped  stairway,  leading  up  to  the  rooms 
she  occupied,  was  reached.     There,  for  a  moment,  she  paused. 

"Pray  come  no  farther,"  she  said,  and  went  on  rapidly  up 
the  flight.  On  the  landing  she  slopped,  a  dimly  discerned 
figure,  blue  and  gold  against  the  dim  whiteness  of  high  panelled 
walls,  moulded  ceiling,  stairway,  and  long  descending  balustrade. 


272  SIR  RICHARD  CALM  AD  Y 

"  I  have  arrived  ! "  she  cried,  and  her  clear  voice  took  strange 
inflections  of  mockery  and  laughter.  "  I  have  arrived  !  I  am 
perfectly  secure  now  and  safe.  Let  us  hope  all  other  inmates  of 
Brockhurst  are  equally  so  tliis  stormy  night.  A  thousand  thanks, 
dear  Aunt  Katherine,  for  your  guidance,  and  a  thousand 
apologies  for  bringing  you  so  far.  Now  let  me  trouble  you  no 
longer." 

The  Gun- Room  Katherine  found  just  as  she  had  left  it,  save 
that  Camp  stood  on  the  tiger-skin  before  the  fire,  his  fore-paws 
and  his  great,  grinning  muzzle  resting  on  the  arm  of  Richard's 
chair.  Camp  whined  a  little.  Mechanically  the  young  man 
raised  his  hand  and  pulled  the  dog's  long,  drooping  ears.  His 
face  was  still  dead  white,  and  there  were  lines  under  his  eyes  and 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  as  of  one  who  tries  to  subdue  ex- 
pression of  physical  pain.     He  looked  straight  at  Lady  Calmady. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "so  you  have  come  back  !  You  observe  I 
have  changed  partners  !  " 

And  again  he  pulled  the  dog's  ears,  while  it  appeared  to  the 
listener  that  his  voice  curiously  echoed  that  other  voice  which  had  so 
latelyaddressed  and  dismissed  her,  taking  on  inflections  of  mockery. 
But  as  she  nerved  herself  to  answer,  he  continued,  hastily  : — 

"  I  want  nothing,  dear  mother,  nothing  in  the  world.  Pray 
don't  concern  yourself  any  more  about  me  to-night.  Haven't  I 
Camp  for  company?  Lamps?  Oh!  I  can  put  them  out 
perfectly  well  myself.  You  were  right,  of  course,  perfectly  right, 
to  come  if  you  were  anxious  about  me.  But  now  surely  you  are 
satisfied  ?  " 

Suddenly  Richard  bowed  his  head,  putting  both  hands  over 
his  eyes. 

"  Only  now,  mother,  if  you  love  me,  go,"  he  said,  with  a  great 
sob  in  his  voice.     "  For  God's  sake  go,  and  leave  me  to  myself." 

But  after  sleepless  hours,  in  the  melancholy,  blear  dawn  of 
the  November  day,  Katherine  lying,  face  downwards,  within  the 
shelter  of  the  embroidered  curtains  of  the  state  bed,  made  her 
submission  at  last  and  prayed. 

"  I  am  helpless,  O  Father  Almighty !  I  have  neither  wit 
nor  understanding,  nor  strength.  Have  mercy,  lest  my  reason 
depart  from  me.  I  have  sinned,  for  years  I  have  sinned,  setting 
my  will,  my  judgment,  my  righteousness,  against  Thine.  Take 
me,  forgive  me,  teach  me.  I  bring  nothing.  I  ask  everything. 
I  am  empty.  Fill  me  with  Thyself,  even  as  with  water  one  fills 
an  empty  cup.  Give  me  the  courage  of  patience  instead  of  the 
courage  of  battle.  Give  me  the  courage  of  meekness  in  place  of 
the  courage  of  pride." 


BOOK  IV 
A   SLIP   BETWIXT   CUP   AND   LIP 

CHAPTER  I 

LADY    LOUISA    BAHKIXG    TRACES    THE    FINGER    OF    PROVIDENCE 

THE  spirit  of  unrest,  which  had  entered  Brockhurst  in  the 
dim  October  weather,  along  with  certain  guests,  did  not— 
Lady  Calmady  had  foreseen  as  much — leave  with  their  leaving. 
It  remained  a  constant  quantity.  Further,  it  engendered  events 
very  far  away  from  and,  at  first  sight,  wholly  at  variance  with 
those  which  had  accompanied  its  advent. 

For  example.  Lady  Louisa  Barking,  passing  through  Lowndes 
Square  one  bleak,  March  morning  on  her  way  from  Albert  Gate 
to  do  a  little,  quiet  shopping  in  Sloane  Street,  observed  that  the 
Calmadys'  house — situated  at  the  corner  of  the  square  and  of 

Street — was  given  over  to  a  small  army  of  work-people. 

During  Richard's  minority  it  had  been  let  for  a  term  of  years 
to  Sir  Reginald  Aldham,  of  Aldham  Revel  in  Midlandshire. 
Since  Dickie's  coming  of  age  it  had  stood  empty,  pending  a 
migration  of  the  lirockhurst  establishment,  which  migration 
had,  in  point  of  fact,  never  yet  taken  place.  But  now,  as 
Lady  Louisa,  walking  with  a  firm  and  distinguished  tread  along 
the  grey,  wind-swept  pavements,  remarked,  the  house  was  in 
process  of  redccoration,  of  painting  within  and  without.  And, 
looking  on  these  things.  Lady  Louisa's  soul  received  very 
sensible  comfort.  She  was  extremely  tenacious  of  purpose. 
And,  in  respect  of  one  purpose  at  least.  Heaven  had  not  seen 
fit,  during  the  last  four  or  five  months,  to  smile  upon  her. 
Superstitious  persons  might  have  regarded  this  fact  as  a  warning. 
Lady  Louisa,  however,  merely  regarded  it  as  an  oversight. 
Now  at  last,  so  it  ajfpeared  to  her,  Heaven  had  awakened  to 
a  consciousness  of  its  delinciuencies,  with  the  satisfactory 
i8 


274  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

result  that  her  own  commendable  patience  touched  on  reason- 
able hope  of  reward.  And  this  was  the  more  agreeable  and 
comforting  to  her  because  the  Quayle  family  affairs  were  not, 
it  must  be  owned,  at  their  brightest  and  best  just  at  present. 
Clouds  lowered  on  the  family  horizon.  For  some  weeks  she 
had  felt  the  situation  called  for  effective  action  on  her  part. 
But  then,  how  to  act  most  effectively  she  knew  not.  Now  the 
needed  opportunity  stared  her  in  the  face,  along  with  those  high 
ladders  and  scaffolding  poles  surrounding  the  Calmady  mansion. 
She  decided,  there  and  then,  to  take  the  field;  but  to  take  it 
discreetly,  to  effect  a  turning  movement,  not  attempt  a  front 
attack. 

So,  on  her  return  to  Albert  Gate,  after  the  completion  of  hei 
morning  shopping,  she  employed  the  half-hour  before  luncheon 
in  writing  an  affectionate,  sisterly  letter  to  Ludovic  Quayle.  That 
accomplished,  young  gentleman  happened,  as  she  was  aware,  to 
be  staying  at  Brockhurst.  She  asked  his  opinion — in  confidence 
— on  the  present  very  uncomfortable  condition  of  the  family 
fortunes,  declaring  how  implicitly  she  trusted  his  good  sense 
and  respected  his  judgment.  Then,  passing  adroitly  to  less 
burning  questions,  she  ended  thus — 

"  Pray  let  Lady  Calmady  know  how  really  delighted  everybody 
is  to  hear  she  and  Sir  Richard  will  be  up  this  season.  I  do  trust, 
as  I  am  such  a  near  neighbour,  that  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do 
for  her,  either  now,  or  later  when  they  are  settling,  she  will  not 
hesitate  to  let  me  know.  It  would  be  such  a  si?ice7-e  pleasure  to 
me.  Mr.  Barking  is  too  busy  with  tiresome,  parliamentary  com- 
mittees to  be  able  to  allow  himself  more  than  a  week  at 
Easter.  I  should  be  thankful  for  a  longer  rest,  for  I  am 
feeling  dreadfully  fagged.  But  you  know  how  conscientious  he 
always  is ;  and  of  course  one  must  pay  a  certain  price  for  the 
confidence  the  leaders  of  one's  party  repose  in  one.  So  do  tell 
Lady  Calmady  we  are  quite  sure  to  be  back  immediately  after 
Easter." 

Reading  which  sentences  Mr.  Quayle  permitted  himself  a  fine 
smile  on  more  than  one  count. 

"  Louisa  reminds  me  of  the  sweet  little  poem  of  '  Bruce  and 
the  Spider,'"  he  said  to  himself.  "She  displays  heroic  per- 
sistence. Her  methods  are  a  trifle  crude  though.  To  provoke 
statements  by  making  them  is  but  a  primitive  form  of  diplomacy. 
Yet  why  be  hard  upon  Louisa?  Like  my  poor,  dear  father,  she, 
more  often  than  not,  means  well." 

It  followed  that  some  few  days  later,  on  his  return  to  Whitney, 
Ludovic  indited  a  voluminous  letter  to  his  sister,  in  his  very  best 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  275 

style. — "  It  is  rather  a  ^Yaste,"  he  reflected  regretfully.  "  She 
will  miss  the  neatest  points.  The  happiest  turns  of  phrase  will 
be  lost  upon  Louisa!"  To  recoup  himself  for  which  sub- 
jective loss  the  young  man  amused  himself  by  giving  a  very 
alarmist  account  of  certain  matters,  though  he  was  constrained 
to  admit  the  pleasing  fact  that  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Calmady 
really  had  it  in  contemplation  to  go  up  to  town  somewhere 
about  Easter. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  the  main  subject  of  ISIr.  Quayle's  letter 
could  hardly  be  otherwise  than  disquieting,  for  it  was  undeniable 
that  Lord  Shotover's  debts  were  causing  both  himself  and  others 
serious  embarrassment  at  this  period.  There  was  nothing  new  in 
this,  that  young  nobleman's  indebtedness  being  a  permanent 
factor  in  his  family's  financial  situation.  This  spring  his  in- 
debtedness had  passed  from  the  chronic  to  the  acute  stage, 
that  was  all ;  with  the  consequence  that  it  became  evident  Lord 
Shotover's  debts  must  be  paid,  or  his  relations  must  submit  to 
the  annoyance  of  seeing  him  pass  through  the  Bankruptcy 
Court.  Which  of  these  objectionable  alternatives  was  least 
objectionable  Lord  Fallowfeild  still  stood  in  doubt,  when,  in 
obedience  to  the  parental  summons,  the  young  man  reached 
Whitney.  Lord  Fallowfeild  had  whipped  himself  up  into  a 
laudable  heat  of  righteous  indignation  before  the  arrival  of  the 
prodigal.  Yet  he  contrived  to  be  out  when  the  dog-cart  con- 
veying the  said  prodigal,  and  Mr.  Decies,  of  the  loist  Lancers — 
a  friend  of  (}uy  Quayle,  home  on  leave  from  India,  whence  he 
brought  news  of  his  fellow-subaltern — actually  drove  up  to  the 
door.  When,  pushed  thereto  by  an  accusing  conscience,  he  did 
at  last  come  in.  Lord  Fallowfeild  easily  persuaded  himself  that 
there  really  was  not  time  before  dinner  for  the  momentous 
conversation.  Moreover,  being  very  full  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness,  he  found  it  infinitely  more  agreeable  to  hear  the 
praises  of  the  absent  son,  Guy,  than  to  fall  foul  of  the  present 
son,  Shotover.  So  that  it  was  not  till  ()uite  late  that  night,  by 
which  time  he  was  slightly  sleepy,  while  his  anger  had  sensibly 
evaporated,  that  the  interview  did  actually  take  place. 

"  Now  then,  Shotover,  march  off  to  the  place  of  execution," 
Ludovic  Quayle  said  sweetly,  as  he  picked  up  his  bedroom 
candlestick.  "  It  was  a  deep  and  subtle  thought  that  of 
bringing  down  Decies.  Only,  query,  did  you  think  of  it,  or 
was  it  just  a  hit  of  your  usual  luck?" 

Lord  Shotover  smiled  rather  ruefully  upon  his  prosperous, 
and,  it  may  be  added,  slightly  parsimonious,  younger  brotlicr. 

"Well,  I  don't  deny  it  did  occur  to  me  it  might  work,"  he 


2/6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

admitted.  "And  after  all,  you  know,  one  mercy  is  there's  no 
real  vice  about  his  dear  old  lordship." 

Lord  Fallowfoild  fidgeted  about  the  library,  his  expression 
that  of  a  well-nourished  and  healthy,  but  rather  fretful  infant. 

"Oh!  ah! — well  —  so  here  you  are,  Shotover,"  he  said. 
"Unpleasant  business  this  of  yours — uncommonly  disagreeable 
business  for  both  of  us." 

"Deuced  unpleasant  business,"  the  younger  man  echoed 
heartily.  He  closely  resembled  his  father  in  looks,  save  that 
he  was  clean  shaven  and  of  a  lighter  build.  Both  father  and 
son  had  the  same  slight  lisp  in  speaking. — "  Deuced  unpleasant," 
he  repeated.     "  Nobody  can  feel  that  more  than  I  do." 

"  Can't  they  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  a  charm- 
ingly innocent  air  of  surprise.  "  There,  sit  down,  Shotover, 
won't  you  ?  It's  a  painful  thing  to  do,  but  we've  got  to  talk  it 
over,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  you're  kind  enough  to  give  me  the  time, 
you  know, — that's  rather  what  I  came  down  here  for." 

"So  you  did  though,"  the  elder  man  returned,  brightening  as 
though  making  an  illuminating  discovery.  Then,  fearing  he  was 
forgetting  his  part  and  becoming  amiable  too  rapidly,  he  made  a 
gallant  effort  to  whip  up  his  somnolent  indignation.  "  It's  very 
distressing  to  me  to  put  it  so  plainly,  but  in  my  opinion  it's  a 
disgraceful  business." 

"  Oh  !  I  give  you  my  word  I  know  it,"  Lord  Shotover  replied, 
with  most  disarming  candour.  His  father  affected,  with  difficulty, 
not  to  hear  the  remark. 

"  It  doesn't  do  for  a  man  in  your  position  to  be  owing  money 
all  over  the  country.  It  brings  the  aristocracy  into  contempt 
with  the  shop-keeping  class.  They're  always  on  the  lookout  for 
the  shortcomings  of  their  superiors,  those  people.  And  they  do 
pay  their  debts,  you  see." 

"  They've  always  got  such  a  thundering  lot  of  money,"  Lord 
Shotover  put  in.  "Don't  know  how  they'd  contrive  to  spend  it 
unless  they  did  pay  their  debts." 

"Oh!  ah! — yes" —  His  father  hesitated.  It  struck  him 
Shotover  was  a  reasonable  fellow,  very  reasonable,  and  he  took 
the  whole  matter  in  a  very  proper  spirit.  In  short,  it  was  not 
easy  to  blow  up  Shotover.  Lord  Fallowfeild  thrust  his  hands 
far  down  into  his  trouser  pockets  and  turned  sideways  in  the 
great,  leather-covered  chair. 

"  I'm  not  narrow-minded  or  prejudiced,"  he  began.  "  I 
always  have  kept  on  civil  terms  with  those  sort  of  people  and 
always  will.     Courtesy  is  an  obligation  on  the  part  of  a  gentleman 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  277 

and  a  Christian.  I'd  as  soon  be  rude  to  my  tailor  as  eat  with 
my  knife.  But  a  man  must  respect  his  own  rank  or  others  won't 
respect  it,  especially  in  these  nasty,  radical,  levelling  times.  You 
must  stand  by  your  class.  There's  a  vulgar  proverb  about  the 
bird  that  fouls  its  own  nest,  you  know.  Well,  I  never  did  that. 
I've  always  stood  by  my  own  class.  Helped  my  poor  brother 
Archibald — you  can't  remember  him — weren't  born  at  the  time 
— to  run  away  with  Lady  Jane  Bateman.  Low,  common  fellow 
Bateman.  I  never  liked  Bateman.  She  left  Ludovic  all  that 
money,  you  know" — 

"Wish  to  goodness  she'd  left  it  to  me,"  murmured  Lord 
Shotover. 

"  Eh  ?  "  inquired  his  father.  Then  he  fell  into  a  moralising 
vein.  "  Nasty,  disreputable  things  elopements.  I  never  did 
approve  of  elopements.  Leave  other  men's  wives  alone, 
Shotover." 

The  younger  man's  mouth  worked  a  little. 

"The  nuisance  is  sometimes  they  won't  leave  you  alone." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  gazed  at  him  a  moment,  very  genially. 

"  Oh  !  ah  ! — well — I  suppose  they  won't,"  he  said,  and  he 
chuckled.  "Anyhow  I  stood  by  your  poor  uncle  Archibald. 
He  was  my  brother  of  course,  and  she  was  a  second  cousin  of 
your  mother's,  so  I  felt  bound  to.  And  I  saw  them  across  the 
Channel  and  into  the  l^aris  train.  Dreadfully  bad  crossing  that 
night  I  remember,  no  private  cabins  to  be  had,  and  Lady  Jane 
was  dreadfully  ill.  Never  take  your  wife  to  sea  on  your  honey 
moon,  Shotover.  It's  too  great  a  risk.  That  business  cost  me  a 
lot  of  money  one  way  and  another,  and  let  me  in  for  a  most 
painful  scene  with  Bateman  afterwards.  But,  as  I  say,  you're 
bound  to  stand  by  your  own  class.  That'll  be  my  only  reason 
for  helping  you,  you  understand,  Shotover,  if  I  do  help  you." 

"  And  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will." — The  young  man  rose  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails. 
He  stooped  a  little,  looking  down  pensively  at  the  hearth-rug 
between  his  feet.  His  clothes — not  yet  paid  for,  or  likely  to  be — 
claimed  admiration,  so  did  the  length  of  his  legs  and  the  neatness 
of  his  narrow  hips. 

"  I  can  only  assure  you  I  shall  be  most  awfully  grateful  if  you 
do  hel|)  me,"  he  said  (juietly.  "I  don't  pretend  to  deserve  it — 
but  that  doesn't  lessen  gratitude — rather  the  other  way,  don't 
you  know.     I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"Won't  you  though?" 

And  for  the  life  of  him  Lord  I-allowfeild  could  not  help 
beaming  upon   this  handsome   prodigal. — "Uncommonly  high- 


2/8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

bred  looking  fellow,  Shotover,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Don't 
\vondcr  women  run  after  him.  Uncommonly  high-bred,  and 
shows  very  nice  feeling  too." 

And  then  the  kindly  and  simple  gentleman  drew  himself  up 
with  a  mental  jerk,  remembering  that  he  was  there  to  curse  rather 
than  to  bless.     He  fidgeted  violently. 

"Not  that  I  have  actually  made  up  my  mind  to  help  you 
yet,"  he  went  on.  "  I  am  very  much  inclined  to  cast  you  adrift. 
It  distresses  me  to  put  it  to  you  so  plainly,  but  you  are  disgrace- 
fully extravagant,  you  know,  Shotover." 

"Oh  !  I  know,"  the  young  man  admitted. 

"  You're  a  selfish  fellow." — Lord  Fallowfeild  became  relentless. 
"Yes,  it's  extremely  painful  to  me  to  say  it  to  you,  but  you  are 
downright  selfish.  And  that,  in  the  long  -  run,  comes  un- 
commonly hard  on  your  sisters.  Good  girls,  your  sisters. 
Never  given  your  mother  or  me  any  trouble,  your  sisters.  But 
money  has  to  come  from  somewhere,  and  each  time  I  pay  your 
debts  I  have  to  cut  down  your  sisters'  portions." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  and  that's  what's  made  me  so  infernally 
unwilling  to  come  to  you  about  my  affairs,"  Lord  Shotover  said, 
in  tones  of  perfectly  genuine  regret. 

"  Is  it  though  ?  "  his  father  commented. — "  Good  fellow  at 
heart,"  he  added  to  himself.  "  Displays  very  proper  feeling. 
Always  was  a  good-hearted  fellow." 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  I've  been  awfully  wretched  about  it  for 
the  last  three  months." 

"Have  you  though?"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  sympathy. 

"I  got  just  about  as  low  as  I  well  could.  I  felt  I  was 
nothing  but  a  nuisance  and  encumbrance.  It  was  beastly  to 
think  of  fleecing  the  girls,  don't  you  know.  I  came  precious 
near  cutting  my  throat — only  that  seemed  rather  a  dirty  way  of 
getting  out  of  it  all." 

"So  it  is  —  poor  boy  —  quite  right.  Nasty  mean  way  of 
shirking  your  responsibilities.  Quite  agree  with  you.  I  have 
never  had  any  opinion  of  a  man  who  cut  his  throat. 
Never  mention  such  a  thing,  Shotover."  He  blew  his  nose 
resonantly. — "Never  talk  of  such  a  thing,"  he  repeated.  "And 
— poor  boy — I — I'll  pay  your  debts.  Only  I  tell  you  this  really 
is  the  last  time.  There  must  be  no  misunderstanding  about  that. 
You  must  reform,  Shotover,  if  it's  only  on  account  of  your  sisters. 
I  don't  want  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  you  in  alluding  to  your 
sisters.  Only  you  must  understand  clearly  this  is  the  last  time. 
You  see  it's  becoming  too  frequent.  I  don't  want  to  press  the 
case  unduly  against  you,  but  you  recollect — I'm  sure  you  do — 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  279 

I  paid  your  debts  in  fifty-eight,  and  again  in  sixty-two,  or  sixty- 
three,  was  it  ?  Yes,  it  must  have  been  sixty-three,  because  that 
was  the  year  my  poor  friend  Tom  Henniker  died.  Good  fellow 
Henniker — I  missed  Henniker,  And  they  wanted  me  to  take 
over  the  hounds.  Nice  fellow  in  the  hunting-field,  Henniker. 
Never  saw  him  lose  his  temper  but  once,  and  that  was  when 
Image  rode  over  the  hounds  on  the  edge  of  Talepenny  Wood." 

"  Rather  coarse  sort  of  brute,  Image,"  put  in  Lord  Shotover. 

"And  Henniker  had  such  an  excellent  manner  with  the 
farmers,  genial  and  cheery,  very  cheery  at  times  and  yet  without 
any  loss  of  dignity.  Great  test  of  a  man's  breeding  that,  being 
cheery  without  loss  of  dignity.  Now  my  poor  friend,  Henniker 
— oh!  ah!  yes,  where  was  I  though?  Your  debts  now, 
Shotover.  Yes,  it  must  have  been  sixty-three,  because  they  all 
wanted  me  to  succeed  him  as  master,  and  I  had  to  tell  them  I 
could  not  afford  it,  so  it  must  have  been  just  after  I  cleared 
you." 

He  looked  at  his  erring  son  with  the  most  engaging  air  of 
appeal  and  remonstrance. 

"Really  it  won't  do,  Shotover,"  he  repeated.  "You  must 
reform.  It's  becoming  too  frequent.  You'd  better  travel  for  a 
time.  That's  the  proper  thing  for  a  man  in  your  position  to  do 
when  he's  in  low  water.  Not  scuttle,  of  course.  I  wouldn't  on 
any  account  have  you  scuttle.  But,  three  weeks  or  a  month 
hence  when  things  are  getting  into  shape,  just  travel  for  a  time. 
1 11  arrange  it  all  for  you.  Only  never  talk  of  cutting  your  throat 
again.  And  you  quite  understand  this  is  positively  the  last  time. 
I  am  very  much  in  earnest,  my  dear  boy,  nothing  will  move  me. 
This  settlement  is  final.  And  we'll  just  run  up  quietly  to  town 
to-morrow  and  have  a  talk  with  my  lawyers.  Fox  and  Goteway. 
Very  civil  and  accommodating  fellow,  Goteway — he  may  be  able 
to  make  some  suggestions.  Very  nice,  confidential-mannered 
person,  Goteway.  Knows  how  to  hold  his  tongue  and  doesn't 
ask  unnecessary  questions — useful  man,  Goteway  " — 

Which  things  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  Lady  Louisa 
Barking  moved  her  at  once  to  wrath,  and  to  deepened  convic- 
tion that  tlie  moment  for  decisive  action  had  arrived.  It 
appeared  to  her  that  her  father  had  put  himself  out  of  court.  His 
weakness  regarding  his  eldest  son  had  practically  delivered  him 
into  her  hand.  She  congratulated  herself  upon  tlie  good  which 
is  thus  beneficently  permitted  to  spring  out  of  evil.  Yet  while 
recognising  that  a  just  Providence  sometimes,  at  all  events,  over- 
rules human  folly  to  the  production  of  ha{)py  results,  she  was 
by  no  means  disposed    to   spare    the   mortal  whose   individual 


2So  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

foolishness  had  given  tlie  divine  wisdom  its  opportunity.  There- 
fore when,  some  few  days  later,  Lord  Fallowfeild  called  on  her, 
after  a  third  or  fourth  interview  with  Messrs.  Fox  and  Goteway — 
beaming,  expansive,  from  the  sense  of  a  merciful  action  accom- 
plished— slie  received  him  in  a  distinctly  repressive  manner.  The 
great,  white  and  gold  drawing-rooms  in  Albert  Gate  were  not  more 
frigid  or  unbending  than  the  bearing  of  their  mistress  as  she 
suffered  her  father's  embrace.  And  that  amiable  nobleman, 
notwithstanding  his  large  frame  and  exalted  social  position,  felt 
himself  shiver  inwardly  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter,  even  as 
he  could  remember  shivering  when,  as  a  small  schoolboy,  he  had 
been  summoned  to  the  dread  presence  of  the  headmaster. 

"Very  good  rooms  these  of  yours,  Louisa,"  he  began  hastily. 
"  Always  have  admired  these  rooms.  Capital  space  for  enter- 
taining. Barking  was  quite  right  to  secure  the  house  as  soon  as 
it  was  in  the  market.  I  told  him  at  the  time  he  would  never 
regret  it." 

Lady  Louisa  did  not  answer,  but  called  after  the  retreating 
footman,  who  had  just  brought  in  a  stately  and  limited  tea-tray, 
much  silver  and  little  food  :— "  I  am  not  at  home,  William." 

Then,  as  she  put  small  and  accurate  measures  of  tea  into  a 
massive  teapot,  she  added  severely: — "What  is  all  this  I  hear 
about  Shotover,  papa  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes — poor  Shotover.  Came  up  to  town  together 
again  to-day.  Good-hearted  fellow,  your  brother  Shotover,  but 
thoughtless.  However,  I  have  had  a  most  satisfactory  talk  with 
my  men  of  business.  Fox  and  Goteway.  I  know  Barking  does 
not  think  much  of  Fox  and  Goteway.  Wanted  me  to  go  to  his 
own  lawyers,  Hodges  and  Banquet.  But  if  anyone  serves  you 
conscientiously  you  should  not  leave  them.  It's  against  my 
principles  to  turn  off  those  who  serve  me  conscientiously.  I  told 
Barking  so  at  the  time,  I  remember.  It  came  out  of  the 
business  about  your  settlements,  wasn't  it — or  the  last  time  I 
paid  Shotover's  " —  He  cleared  his  throat  hurriedly.  "  I  see  the 
Calmadys'  house  is  being  done  up,"  he  continued.  "  Nice 
young  fellow,  Calmady.  But  I  never  can  help  feeling  a  certain 
awkwardness  with  him.  Takes  you  up  rather  short  in  conversa- 
tion too  .sometimes.  Terribly  distressing  thing  his  deformity 
and  all  that,  both  for  himself  and  Lady  Calmady.  Hope,  perhaps, 
she  doesn't  feel  it  as  some  women  would  though — tactful  woman, 
Lady  Calmady,  and  very  good  woman  of  business.  Still,  never 
feel  quite  at  my  ease  with  Lady  Calmady.  Can't  help  wondering 
how  they'll  do  in  London,  you  know.  Rather  difficult  thing  his 
going  about  much  with  that " — 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  281 

Lady  Louisa  held  out  a  small  teacup.  Her  high  penetrating 
voice  asserted  itself  resolutely  against  her  father's  kindly,  stum- 
bling chatter,  as  she  asked  : — 

"Is  it  true  you  are  not  coming  up  from  Whitney  this 
season  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! — tea — yes,  thank  you  very  much,  my  dear.  No — well, 
I  think  possibly  we  may  not  come  up  this  year.  Goteway 
believes  he  has  heard  of  a  very  eligible  tenant  for  the  Belgrave 
Square  house,  very  eligible.  And  so,  nothing  actually  decided 
yet,  but  I  think  very  possibly  we  may  not  come  up." 

He  spoke  apologetically,  regarding  his  daughter,  over  the 
small  teacup,  with  an  expression  of  entreaty.  Every  feature  of 
his  handsome,  innocent  countenance  begged  her  not  to  deal 
harshly  with  him.     But  Lady  Louisa  remained  obdurate. 

"  Shotover's  conduct  is  becoming  a  positive  scandal,"  she 
said. 

"Not  conduct,  my  dear — no,  not  conduct,  only  money," 
protested  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

'*  If  money  is  not  conduct  I  really  don't  know  what  is," 
retorted  his  daughter.  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  go  in  for  such  fine 
distinctions.  In  any  case  Mr.  Barking  heard  the  most  shocking 
rumours  at  his  club  the  other  day." 

"  Did  he  though  ?  "  ejaculated  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  He  was  too  considerate  to  tell  me  anything  very  definite, 
but  he  felt  that,  going  out  and  seeing  everybody  as  of  course  I 
have  to,  it  was  only  right  I  should  have  some  hint  of  what  was 
being  said.  Everyone  is  talking  about  Shotover.  You  can 
imagine  how  perfectly  intolerable  it  is  for  me  to  feel  that  my 
brother's  debts  are  being  canvassed  in  this  sort  of  way." 

"I  am  very  sorry  there  should  be  any  gossip,"  Lord  Fallow- 
feild said  humbly.  "  Nasty  thing  gossip — lies,  too,  mostly,  all  of 
it.     Nasty,  low,  unprofitable  thing  gossip." 

"And,  of  course,  your  all  not  coming  up  will  give  colour  to 
it." 

"  Will  it  though  ?  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  always  see 
straight  through  things,  Louisa.  You  have  by  far  the  best  head 
in  the  family,  except  Ludovic  —  uncommonly  clever  fellow, 
Ludovic.  Wonder  if  I  had  belter  talk  it  all  over  with  Ludovic? 
If  you  and  he  agree  in  thinking  our  not  coming  up  will  make 
more  talk,  why,  if  only  on  Shotover's  account,  I  " — 

But  this  was  not  in  the  least  the  turn  which  his  daughter 
desired  the  conversation  to  take. 

"  Pray  remember  you  have  other  children  besides  Shotover, 
papa!"   she   said  hastily.     "And   for   everyone's  sake   run    no 


282  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

further  risk  of  impoverishing  yourself.  It  is  obvious  that  you 
must  save  where  you  can.  If  there  is  the  chance  of  a  good  let 
for  the  Relgrave  Square  house,  it  would  be  madness  to  refuse  it. 
And,  after  all,  you  do  not  really  care  about  London.  If  there 
are  any  important  debates  in  the  Lords,  you  can  always  come  up 
for  a  night  or  so.     It  does  not  matter  about  you." 

*'Oh!  doesn't  it  though?"  Lord  Fallowfeild  put  in  quite 
humbly  and  gently. 

"  And  mama  would  always  rather  stay  on  at  Whitney.  Only 
it  must  not  appear  as  if  we  were  the  least  uncomfortable  at  meet- 
ing people.  I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  go  everywhere.  I  shall 
bo  dreadfully  fagged,  of  course,  but  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  all  of 
you  to  do  so.  And  I  should  like  the  girls  to  go  out  too. 
People  must  not  suppose  they  have  no  gowns  to  their  backs. 
Maggie  and  Emily  have  had  several  seasons.  I  am  less  worried 
about  them.  But  Connie  must  be  seen.  She  is  looking 
extremely  pretty." 

"  Isn't  she  though  ?  "  Lord  Fallowfeild  chimed  in,  brightening. 
The  picture  of  those  reportedly  gownless  backs  had  depressed 
him  abominably. 

"  Yes,  and  she  must  have  every  advantage.  I  have  quite 
decided  that.  She  must  come  up  to  me  at  once.  I  shall  write 
to  mama  and  point  out  to  her  how  necessary  it  is  that  one  of 
the  girls,  at  least,  should  be  very  much  en  evidence  this  year.  And 
I  am  most  anxious  it  should  be  Connie.  As  I  undertake  all  the 
fatigue  and  responsibility  I  feel  I  have  a  right  of  choice.  I  will 
see  that  she  is  properly  dressed.  I  undertake  everything.  Now, 
papa,  if  you  are  going  down  by  the  6.10  train  you  ought  to  start. 
W^ill  you  have  a  hansom  ?  " 

Then,  as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  and  presented  an 
unresponsive  cheek  to  the  paternal  lips,  Lady  Louisa  clinched 
the  matter. 

"  I  may  consider  it  quite  settled,  then,  about  Constance  ?  "  she 
said.  "  I  mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Barking  yesterday,  and  we  agreed 
it  ought  to  be  done  even  if  it  entailed  a  little  inconvenience  and 
expense.  It  is  not  right  to  be  indifferent  to  appearances.  The 
other  two  girls  can  come  up  for  a  little  while  later,  Alicia  must 
help.  Of  course  there  is  not  much  room  in  that  wretched,  little 
Chelsea  house  of  hers,  but  George  Winterbotham  can  turn  out  of 
his  dressing-room.  Alicia  must  exert  herself  for  once.  And, 
papa,  Connie  need  not  bring  a  maid.  Those  country  girls  from 
AV'hitney  don't  always  fit  in  quite  well  with  the  upper  servants, 
and  yet  there  is  a  difficulty  about  keeping  them  out  of  the 
housekeeper's  room.     I  will  provide  a  maid  for  her.     I'll  write 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  2S3 

to  mama  about  everything  to-morrow.  And,  papa,  I  do  beg  you 
\vill  discourage  Shotover  from  coming  here,  for  really  I  would 
much  rather  not  see  him  at  present.  Good-bye.  Pray  start  at 
once.     You  have  barely  time  to  get  to  ^^'aterloo." 

And  so  Lord  Fallowfeild  started,  a  little  flustered,  a  little 
crestfallen,  on  his  homeward  journey. 

"  Able  woman,  Louisa,"  he  said  to  himself,  '*  Uncommonly 
clear-sighted  woman,  Louisa.  But  a  trifle  hard.  Wonder  if 
Barking  ever  feels  that,  now  ?  Not  very  sensitive  man,  Barking, 
though.  Suppose  that  hardness  in  Louisa  comes  of  her  having 
no  children.  Always  plenty  of  children  in  our  family — except 
my  poor  brother  Archibald  and  Lady  Jane,  they  had  no  children. 
Yet  somebody  told  me  she'd  had  one  by  Bateman,  which  died. 
Never  understood  about  that.  Capital  thing  for  Ludovic  she 
never  did  have  any  by  Archibald.  But  it's  always  curious  to  me 
Louisa  should  have  no  children.  Shouldn't  have  expected  that 
somehow  of  Barking  and  Louisa.  Sets  her  more  free,  of  course, 
in  regard  to  her  sisters.  Very  thoughtful  for  her  sisters,  Louisa. 
I  suppose  she  must  have  Connie.  Nuisance  all  this  gossip  about 
Shotover.  Pretty  child,  Connie — best  looking  of  the  lot.  People 
say  she's  like  me.— Wonderfully  pretty  child,  Connie.  That 
young  fellow  Decies  thinks  so  too,  or  Pm  very  much  mistaken. 
\'ery  much  attracted  by  Connie.  Fine  young  fellow,  Decies — 
comfort  to  hear  of  Guy  from  him.  Suppose  she  must  go  up 
to  Louisa?  Gentleman  like  fellow,  Decies.  I  shouldn't  care  to 
part  with  Connie  " — 

And  then,  his  reflections  becoming  increasingly  interjectional 
as  the  train  trundled  away  south-westward.  Lord  Fallowfeild 
leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the  railway  carriage  and  fell  very 
fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT.LMXC.    HOW    VAMIV    KAIll    MA  1)1 ;    ACUUAINTAXCK    WUJI 
IlICHAlll)    CAI.MADV 

THERE  was  no  refusing  belief  to  the  fact.  The  old,  cloistered 
life  at  JJrockhurst,  for  good  or  evil,  was  broken  up. 
Katherine  Calmady  recognised  that  another  stage  had  been 
reached  on  the  relentless  journey,  that  new  prospects  opened, 
new  horizons  invited  her  anxious  gaze.  She  rccogni.sed  al.so  that 
all  which  had  been  was  dead,  according  to   its  existing   form, 


284  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  should  receive  burial,  silent,  somewhat  sorrowful,  yet  not 
without  hope  of  eventual  resurrection  in  regard  to  the  nobler  part 
of  it.  The  fair  coloured  petals  of  the  flower  fall  away  from  the 
maturing  fruit,  the  fruit  rots  to  set  free  the  seed.  Yet  the  vital 
principle  remains,  life  lives  on,  though  the  material  clothing 
of  it  change.  And,  therefore,  Katherine — an  upspringing  of 
patience  and  chastened  fortitude  within  her,  the  result  of  her 
reconciliation  to  the  Divine  Light  and  resignation  of  herself  to 
its  indwelling — set  herself,  not  to  arrest  the  falling  of  the  flower, 
but  to  help  the  ripening  of  the  seed.  If  the  old  garments  were 
out  of  date,  too  strait  and  narrow  for  her  child's  growth,  then 
let  others  be  found  him.  She  did  not  wait  to  have  him  ask,  she 
offered,  and  that  without  hint  of  reproach  or  of  unwillingness. 

Yet  so  to  offer  cost  her  not  a  little.  For  it  was  by  no  means 
easy  to  sink  her  natural  pride,  and  go  forth  smiling  with  this  son 
of  hers,  at  once  beautiful  and  hideous  in  person,  for  all  the  world 
to  see.  Something  of  personal  heroism  is  demanded  of  whoso 
prescribes  heroic  remedies,  if  those  remedies  are  to  succeed.  At 
night,  alone  in  the  darkness,  Katherine,  suddenly  awaking,  would 
be  haunted  by  perception  of  the  curious  glances,  and  curious 
comments,  which  must  of  necessity  attend  Richard  through  all 
the  brilliant  pageant  of  the  London  season.  How  would  he  bear 
it  ?  And  then — self-distrust  laying  fearful  hands  upon  her — how 
would  she  bear  it,  also  ?  Would  her  late  acquired  serenity  of  soul 
depart,  her  faith  in  the  gracious  purposes  of  Almighty  God  suffer 
eclipse  ?  Would  she  fall  back  into  her  former  condition  of  black 
anger  and  revolt  ?  She  prayed  not.  So  long  as  these  evils  did 
not  descend  upon  her,  she  could  bear  the  rest  well  enough.  For, 
could  she  but  keep  her  faith,  Katherine  was  beginning  to  regard 
all  other  suffering  which  might  be  in  store  for  her  as  a  negligible 
quantity.  With  her  healthy  body,  and  wholesome  memories  of 
a  great  and  perfect  human  love,  it  was  almost  impossible  that  she 
should  adopt  a  morbid  and  self-torturing  attitude.  Yet  any  re- 
ligious ideal,  worth  the  name,  will  always  have  in  it  an  ascetic 
element.  And  that  element  was  so  far  present  with  her  that 
personal  suffering  had  come  to  bear  a  not  wholly  unlovely  aspect. 
She  had  ceased  to  gird  against  it.  So  long  as  Richard  was 
amused  and  fairly  content,  so  long  as  the  evil  which  had  been 
abroad  in  Brockhurst  House,  that  stormy  autumn  night,  could  be 
frustrated,  and  the  estrangement  between  herself  and  Richard, — 
unacknowledged,  yet  sensibly  present, — which  that  evil  had  be- 
gotten, might  be  lessened,  she  cared  little  what  sacrifices  she 
made,  what  fatigue,  exertion,  even  pain,  she  might  be  called  on 
to  endure.     An  enthusiasm  of  self-surrender  animated  her. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  285 

During  the  last  five  months,  slowly  and  with  stumbling  feet, 
yet  very  surely,  she  had  carried  her  life  and  the  burden  of  it  up 
to  a  higher  plane.  And,  from  that  more  elevated  standpoint,  she 
saw  both  past  events  and  existing  relationships  in  perspective, 
according  to  their  just  and  permanent  values.  Only  one  object, 
one  person,  refused  to  range  itself,  and  stood  out  from  the  other- 
wise calm,  if  pensive,  landscape  as  a  threatening  danger,  a  monu- 
ment of  things  wicked  and  fearful.  Katherine  tried  to  turn  her 
eyes  from  that  object,  for  it  provoked  in  her  a  great  hatred,  a 
burning  indignation,  sadly  at  variance  with  the  saintly  ideals 
which  had  so  captivated  her  mind  and  heart.  Katherine  re- 
mained— always  would  remain,  happily  for  others — very  much  a 
woman.  And,  as  Avoman  and  mother,  she  could  not  but  hate  that 
other  woman  who  had,  as  she  feared,  come  very  near  seducing 
her  son. 

Therefore  very  various  causes  combined  to  reconcile  her  to 
the  coming  adventure.  Indeed  she  set  forth  on  it  with  so  cheer- 
ful a  countenance,  that  Richard,  while  charmed,  was  also  a  trifle 
surprised  by  the  alacrity  with  which  she  embraced  it.  He 
regarded  her  somewhat  critically,  questioning  whether  his  mother 
was  of  a  more  worldly  and  light-minded  disposition  than  he  had 
heretofore  supposed. 

There  had  been  some  talk  of  Julius  March  joining  the  con- 
templated exodus.     But  he  had  declined,  smiling  rather  sadly, 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  To  go  would  be  a  mistake  and  a  weakly 
selfish  one  on  my  part.  I  have  long  ceased  to  be  a  man  of 
cities,  and  am  best  employed,  and  indeed  am  most  at  my  ease, 
herding  my  few  sheep  here  in  the  wilderness.  I  am  part  and 
parcel  of  just  all  that,  which  we  have  agreed  it  is  wise  you  shall 
leave  behind  you  for  a  while.  My  presence  would  lessen  the 
thoroughness  of  the  change  of  scene  and  of  thought.  You  take 
up  a  way  of  life  which  was  familiar  to  you  years  ago.  The 
habits  of  it  will  soon  come  back.  I  have  never  known  them.  I 
should  be  a  hindrance,  rather  than  a  help.  No,  I  will  wait  and 
keep  the  lam[)S  burning  before  the  altar,  and  the  fire  burning 
Uf)on  the  hearth  until — and,  please  God,  it  may  be  in  peace, 
crowned  with  good  fortune — you  both  come  back." 

But  the  adventure,  fairly  embarked  on,  displayed  quite  other 
characteristics — as  is  the  way  with  such  skittish  folk — than 
Katherine  had  anticipated.  Against  possibilities  of  mortification, 
against  possibilities  of  covert  laughter  and  the  pointing  fingers 
of  the  crowd,  she  had  steeled  herself.  But  it  had  not  occurred 
to  her  that  both  Richard's  trial  and  her  own  might  take  the  form 
of  an  exuberant  and  slightly  vulgar  popularity  ;  and  that,  far  from 


286  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

being  shoved  aside  into  the  gutter,  the  young  man  might  be 
hoisted,  with  general  aeclanialion,  on  to  the  very  throne  of  Vanity 
Fair. 

The  Brockhurst  establisliment  moved  up  to  town  at  the  begin- 
ning of  April.  And  by  the  end  of  the  month,  Sir  Richard  Calmady, 
his  wealth,  his  house,  his  horses,  his  dinners,  his  mother's  gracious 
beauty,  and  a  certain  mystery  which  surrounded  him,  came  to  be 
in  everyone's  mouth.  A  new  star  had  arisen  in  the  social  firma- 
ment, and  all  and  sundry  gathered  to  observe  the  reported 
brightness  of  its  shining.  Rich,  young,  good-looking,  well- 
connected,  and  strangely  unfortunate,  here  indeed  was  a  novel 
and  telling  attraction  among  the  somewhat  fly-blown  shows  of 
Vanity  Fair !  Many-tongued  rumour  was  busy  with  Dickie's 
name,  his  possessions  and  personality.  The  legend  of  the  man — 
a  thing  often  so  very  other  than  the  man  himself — grew,  Jonah's 
gourd-like,  in  wild  luxuriance.  All  those  many  persons  who  had 
known  Lady  Calmady  before  her  retirement  from  the  world, 
hastened  to  renew  acquaintance  with  her.  While  a  larger,  and  it 
may  be  added  less  distinguished,  section  of  society,  greedy  of 
intimacy  with  whoso  or  whatsoever  might  represent  the  fashion 
of  the  hour,  crowded  upon  their  heels.  Invitations  showered 
down  thick  as  snowflakes  in  January.  To  get  Sir  Richard 
and  Lady  Calmady  was  to  secure  the  success  of  your  entertain- 
ment, whatever  that  entertainment  might  be — to  secure  it  the 
more  certainly  because  the  two  persons  in  question  exercised  a 
rather  severe  process  of  selection,  and  were  by  no  means  to  be 
had  for  the  asking. 

All  these  things  Ludovic  Quayle  noted,  in  a  spirit  which  he 
flattered  himself  was  cynical,  but  which  was,  in  point  of  fact,  rather 
anxiously  affectionate.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  this  sudden 
and  unlooked-for  popularity  might  turn  Richard's  head  a  little, 
and  develop  in  him  a  morbid  self-love,  that  va7iit'c  de  monstre  not 
uncommon  to  persons  disgraced  by  nature.  He  had  feared 
Richard  might  begin  to  plume  himself — as  is  the  way  of  such 
persons — less  upon  the  charming  qualities  and  gifts  which  he 
possessed  in  common  with  many  other  charming  j)ersons,  than 
upon  those  deplorable  peculiarities  which  differentiated  him  from 
them.  And  it  was  with  a  sincerity  of  relief,  of  which  he  felt  a 
trifle  ashamed,  that,  as  time  went  on,  Mr.  Quayle  found  himself 
unable  to  trace  any  such  tendency,  that  he  observed  his  friend's 
wholesome  pride  and  carefulness  to  avoid  all  exposure  of  his  de- 
formity. Richard  would  drive  anywhere,  and  to  any  festivity, 
where  driving  was  possible.  He  would  go  to  the  theatre  and 
opera.     He  would  dine  at  a  few  houses,  and  entertain  largely  at 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  287 

his  own  house.  But  he  would  not  put  foot  to  ground  in 
the  presence  of  the  many  women  who  courted  him,  or  in  that  of 
the  many  men  who  treated  him  with  rather  embarrassed  kindness 
and  civility  to  his  face  and  spoke  of  him  with  pitying  reserve 
behind  his  back. 

Other  persons,  besides  Mr.  Quayle,  watched  Richard  Calmady's 
social  successes  with  interest.     Among  them  was  Honoria  St. 
Quentin.     That  young  lady  had  been  spending  some  weeks  with 
Sir  Reginald  and  Lady  Aldham  in  Midlandshire,  and  had  now 
accompanied  them   up  to  town.      Lady  Aldham's   health   was 
indifferent,  confining  her  often  for  days  together  to  the  sofa  and 
a  darkened  room.     Her  husband,  meanwhile,  possessed  a  craving 
for  agreeable  feminine  society,  liable  to  be  gratified  in  a  somewhat 
errant  manner  abroad,  unless  gratified  in  a  discreet  manner  at 
home.     So  Honoria  had  taken  over  the  duty,  for  friendship's 
sake,    of   keeping    the    well-favoured,    middle-aged   gentleman 
innocently  amused.      To    Honoria,    at   this   period,  no   experi- 
ence came  amiss.     For  the  past  three  years,  since  the  death  of 
her  god-mother,  Lady  Tobermory,  and  her  resultant  access  of 
fortune,  she  had  wandered  from  place  to  place,  seeing  life,  now 
in  stately  English  country-houses,   now  among  the  overtaxed, 
under-fed  women -workers   of  Whitechapel  and  Soho,    now   in 
some   obscure    Italian    village  among   the  folds  of  the   purple 
Apennines.     Now  she  would  patronise  a  middle-class    British 
lodging-house,  along  with  some  girl  friend  richer  in  talent  than 
in   pence,  in   some   seaside   town.     Now  she  would   fancy  the 
stringent   etiquette   of  a  British   embassy   at   foreign   court   or 
capital.     Honoria  was  nothing  if  not   various.     But,   amid  all 
mutations  of  occupation  and  of  place,  her  fearlessness,  her  lazy 
grace,  her  serious  soul,  her  gallant   bearing,   her  loyalty  to  the 
oppressed,  remained  the  same.     "Chaste  and  fair"  as  Artemis, 
experimental    as   the   Comte   de   St.    Simon    himself,    Honoria 
roamed   the   world  —  fascinating    yet    never    quite    fascinated, 
enthusiastic  yet  evasive,  seeking  earnestly  to  live,  yet  too  self- 
centred  as  yet  to  be  able  to  recognise  in  what,  after  all,  consists 
the  heart  of  living. 

She  and  Mr.  Ouayle  had  met  at  Aldham  Revel  during  the 
past  winter.  She  attracted,  while  slightly  confusing,  that  accom- 
plished young  gentleman — confusing  his  judgment,  well  under- 
stood, since  Mr.  (^)uayle  himself  was  incapable  of  confusion. 
Her  views  of  men  and  things  struck  him  as  distinctly  original. 
Her  attitude  of  mind  appeared  unconventional,  yet  deeply  rooted 
[)rejudices  declared  themselves  where  he  would  least  have  antici- 
pated their  existence.     And  so  it  became  a  favourite  pastime  of 


288  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADV 

Mr.  Quayle's  to  present  to  her  cases  of  conscience,  of  conduct,  of 
manners  or  morals — usually  those  of  a  common  acquaintance — 
for  discussion,  that  he  might  observe  her  verdict.  He  imagined 
this  a  scientific,  psychologic  exercise.  He  desired,  so  he 
.supposed,  to  gratify  his  own  superior,  masculine  intelligence, 
by  noting  the  aberrations,  and  arriving  at  the  rationale,  of  her 
thought.  From  which  it  may  be  suspected  that  even  Ludovic 
Quayle  had  his  hours  of  innocent  self-deception.  Be  that,  how- 
ever, as  it  may,  certain  it  is  that  in  pursuit  of  this  pastime  he  one 
day  presented  to  her  the  peculiar  case  of  Richard  Calmady  for 
discussion,  and  that,  not  without  momentous,  though  indirect, 
result. 

It  happened  thus.  One  noon  in  May,  Ludovic  had  the  happi- 
ness of  finding  himself  seated  beside  Miss  St.  Quentin  in  the 
I'ark,  watching  the  endless  string  of  passing  carriages  and  the 
brilliant  crowd  on  foot.  Sir  Reginald  Aldham  had  left  his  green 
chair — placed  on  the  far  side  of  the  young  lady's — and  leaned 
on  the  railings  talking  to  some  acquaintance. 

"  A  gay  maturity,"  Ludovic  remarked  with  his  air  of  patronage, 
indicating  the  elder  gentleman's  shapely  back.  "  The  term  *  old 
boy'  has,  alas,  declined  upon  the  vernacular  and  been  put  to 
base  uses  of  jocosity,  so  it  is  a  forbidden  one.  Else,  in  the 
present  instance,  how  applicable,  how  descriptive  a  term ! 
Should  we,  I  wonder,  give  thanks  for  it.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  that 
the  men  of  my  generation  will  mature  according  to  a  quite  other 
pattern?" 

"Will  not  ripen,  but  sour?"  Honoria  asked  maliciously. 
Her  companion's  invincible  self-complacency  frequently  amused 
her.  Then  she  added  : — "But,  you  know,  I'm  very  fond  of  him. 
It  isn't  altogether  easy  to  keep  straight  as  a  young  boy,  is  it? 
Depend  upon  it,  it  is  ten  times  more  difficult  to  keep  straight  as 
an  old  one.  For  a  man  of  that  temperament  it  can't  be  very 
plain  sailing  between  fifty  and  sixty." 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  at  her  in  gentle  inquiry,  his  long  neck 
directed  forward,  his  chin  slightly  raised. 

".Sailing?     The  yacht  is ? "— 

"The  yacht  is  laid  up  at  Cowes.  And  you  understand  per- 
fectly well  what  I  mean,"  Honoria  replied,  somewhat  loftily. 
Her  delicate  face  straightened  with  an  expression  of  sensitive 
pride.  But  her  anger  was  shortlived.  She  speedily  forgave 
him.  The  sunshine  and  fresh  air,  the  radiant  green  of  the 
young  leaves,  the  rather  superb  spectacle  of  wealth,  vigour, 
beauty,  presented  to  her  by  the  brilliant  London  world  in  the 
brilliant  summer  noon,  was  exhilarating,  tending  to  lightness  of 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  2S9 

heart.  There  was  poetry  of  an  opulent,  resonant  sort  in  the 
brave  show.  Just  then  a  company  of  Life  Guards  clattered  by, 
in  splendour  of  white  and  scarlet  and  shining  helmets.  The 
rattle  of  accoutrements,  and  thud  of  the  hoofs  of  their  trotting 
horses,  detached  itself  arrestingly  from  the  surrounding  murmur 
of  many  voices  and  ceaseless  roar  of  the  traffic  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  A  light  came  into  Honoria's  eyes.  It  was  good  to  be 
alive  on  such  a  day  !  Moreover,  in  her  own  purely  platonic 
fashion,  she  really  entertained  a  very  great  liking  for  the  young 
man  seated  at  her  side. 

"  You  have  missed  your  vocation,"  she  said,  while  her  eyes 
narrowed  and  her  upper  lip  shortened  into  a  delightful  smile. 
"You  were  born  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  a  veritable  pedagogue 
and  terror  of  illiterate  youth.  You  love  to  correct.  And  my 
rather  sketchy  English  gives  you  an  opportunity  of  which  I 
observe  you  are  by  no  means  slow  to  take  advantage.  You  care 
infinitely  more  for  the  manner  of  saying,  than  for  the  thing  said. 
Whereas  I " —  she  broke  off  abruptly,  and  her  face  straightened, 
became  serious,  almost  severe,  again.  "  Do  you  see  who  Sir 
Reginald  is  speaking  to  ? "  she  added.  "  There  are  the 
Calmadys." 

A  break  had  come  in  the  loitering  procession  of  correctly 
clothed  men  and  gaily  clothed  women,  of  tall  hats  and  many 
coloured  parasols ;  and,  in  the  space  thus  afforded,  the  Brock- 
hurst  mail -phaeton  became  apparent  drawn  up  against  the 
railings.  The  horses,  a  noticeably  fine  and  well-matched  pair 
of  browns,  were  restless,  notwithstanding  the  groom  at  their 
heads.  Foam  whitened  the  rings  of  their  bits,  and  falling  flakes 
of  it  dabbled  their  chests.  Lady  Calmady  leaned  sideways  over 
the  leather  folds  of  the  hood,  answering  some  inquiry  of  Sir 
Reginald,  who,  hat  in  hand,  looked  up  at  her.  She  wore  a  close- 
fitting,  grey,  velvet  coat,  which  revealed  the  proportions  of  her 
full,  but  still  youthful  figure.  The  air  and  sunshine  had  given 
her  an  unusual  brightness  of  complexion,  so  that  in  face  as  well 
as  in  figure,  youth  still,  in  a  sensible  measure,  claimed  her.  She 
turni-d  her  head,  a[)pcaling,  as  it  seemed,  to  Richard,  and  the 
nimble  breeze  playing  caressingly  with  the  soft  white  laces  and 
grey  plumes  of  her  bonnet  added  thereby  somehow  to  the  effect 
of  glad  and  gracious  content  jxrvading  her  aspect.  Richard 
looked  round  and  down  at  her,  half  laughing.  Unquestionably 
he  was  victoriously  handsome,  seen  thus,  uplifted  above  the 
throng,  handling  his  fine  horses,  all  trace  of  bodily  disfigure- 
ment concealed,  a  touch  of  oid-world  courtliness  and  tender 
respect  in  his  manner  as  he  addressed  his  mother. 

^9 


200  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADV 

Ludovic  Quayle  watched  the  little  scene  with  close  attention. 
Then,  as  the  ranks  of  the  smart  procession  closed  up  again, 
hiding  the  carriage  and  its  occupants  from  sight,  he  leaned  back 
with  a  movement  of  quiet  satisfaction  and  turned  to  his  com- 
panion. Miss  St.  Quentin  sat  round  in  her  chair,  presenting 
her  slender,  dust-coloured,  lace-and-silk-clad  person  in  profile 
to  the  passers-by,  and  so  tilting  her  parasol  as  to  defy  recog- 
nition. The  expression  of  her  pale  face  and  singular  eyes  was 
far  from  encouraging. 

"  Indeed — and  why  ?  "  Ludovic  permitted  himself  to  remark, 
in  tones  of  polite  inquiry.  "  I  had  been  led  to  believe  that  you 
and  Lady  Calmady  were  on  terms  of  rather  warm  friendship." 

"  We  are,"  Honoria  answered,  "that  is,  at  Brockhurst." 

"Forgive  my  mdiscretion — but  why  not  in  London?" 

The  young  lady  looked  full  at  him. 

''  Mr.  Quayle,"  she  asked,  "  is  it  true  that  you  are  responsible 
for  this  new  departure  of  theirs,  for  their  coming  up,  I  mean?" 

"Responsible?  You  do  me  too  great  an  honour.  Who  am 
I  that  I  should  direct  the  action  of  my  brother  man  ?  But  Lady 
Calmady  is  good  enough  to  trust  me  a  little,  and  I  own  that  I 
advocated  a  modification  of  the  existing  regime.''''  —  Ludovic 
crossed  his  long  legs  and  fell  to  nursing  one  knee.  "  It  is  no 
breach  of  confidence  to  tell  you  —  since  you  know  the  fact 
already  —  that  fate  decreed  an  alien  element  should  obtrude 
itself  into  the  situation  at  Brockhurst  last  autumn.  I  need 
name  no  names,  I  think  ?  " 

Honoria's  head  was  raised.  She  regarded  him  steadfastly,  but 
made  no  sign. 

"Ah!  I  need  not  name  names,"  he  repeated;  "I  thought 
not.  Well,  after  the  alien  element  removed  itself — the  two  facts 
may  have  no  connection — Lady  Calmady  very  certainly  never 
implied  that  they  had — but,  as  I  remarked,  after  the  alien  element 
removed  itself,  it  was  observable  that  our  poor,  dear  Dickie 
Calmady  became  a  trifle  difficult,  a  trifle  distrait,  in  plain  English 
most  remarkably  grumpy  and  far  from  delightful  to  live  with. 
And  his  mother" — 

"  It's  too  bad,  altogether  too  bad  ! "  broke  out  Honoria  hotly. 

"Too  bad  of  whom?"  Mr.  Quayle  asked,  with  the  utmost 
suavity.  "  Of  the  nameless,  obtrusive,  alien  element,  or  of  poor, 
dear  Dick  ?  " 

The  young  lady  closed  her  parasol  slowly,  and,  turning,  faced 
the  sauntering  crowd  again. 

"Of  Sir  Richard  Calmady,  of  course,"  she  said. 

Her   companion   did   not   answer    immediately.      His    eyes 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LlP  291 

pursued  a  receding  carriage  far  down  the  string,  amid  the  gaily- 
shifting  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  the  fluttering  lace  and  grey- 
feathers  of  a  woman's  bonnet.  W'hen  he  spoke,  at  last,  it  was 
with  an  unusual  trace  of  feeling. 

"  After  all,  you  know,  there  are  a  good  many  excuses  for 
Richard  Calmady."' 

"  If  it  comes  to  that  there  are  a  good  many  excuses  for  Helen 
de  Vallorbes,"  Honoria  put  in  quickly. 

"  For  ?  For  ?  "  the  young  man  repeated,  relaxing  into  the 
blandest  of  smiles.  "  Yes,  thanks — I  see  I  was  right.  It  was 
unnecessary  to  name  names. — Oh !  undoubtedly,  innumerable 
excuses,  and  of  the  most  valid  description,  were  they  needed — 
were  they  not  swallowed  up  in  the  single,  self-evident  excuse 
that  the  lady  you  mention  is  a  supremely  clever  and  captivating 
person." 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  said  Honoria. 

"  Think  so  ?  Show  me  the  man  so  indifferent  to  his  reputa- 
tion for  taste  that  he  could  venture  to  think  otherwise  !  " 

"  Still  she  should  have  left  him  alone." — Honoria's  indolent, 
reflective  speech  took  on  a  peculiar  intonation,  and  she  pressed 
her  long-fingered  hands  together,  as  though  controlling  a  shudder. 
"  I — I'm  ashamed  to  confess  it,  I  do  not  like  him.  But,  as  I 
told  you,  just  on  that  account" — 

"  Pardon  me,  on  what  account  ?  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin  was  quick  to  resent  impertinence,  and  now 
momentarily  anger  struggled  with  her  natural  sincerity.  15ut  the 
latter  conquered.  Again  she  forgave  Mr.  Quayle.  Yet  a  dull 
flush  spread  itself  over  her  pale  skin,  and  he  perceived  that  she 
was  distinctly  moved.     This  piqued  his  curiosity. 

"  I  know  I'm  awfully  foolish  about  some  things,"  she  said. 
"  I  can't  bear  to  speak  of  them.  I  dread  seeing  them.  The 
sight  of  them  takes  the  warmth  out  of  the  sunshine." 

Again  Ludovic  fell  to  nursing  his  knee. — What  an  amazing 
invention  is  the  feminine  mind !  What  endless  entertainment 
is  derivable  from  striving  to  follow  its  tergi\  ■  1  ,1  i  ms  ! 

"And  you  saw  that  which  takes  the  wuiiuLli  out  of  the  sun- 
shine just  now?"  he  said.  "Ah!  well  —  alas,  for  Dickie 
Calmady !  " 

"Still  I  can't  bi-ar  anyone  not  to  j)lay  fair.  You  should  only 
hit  a  man  your  own  size.  I  told  Helen  de  Vallorbes  so.  I'm 
very,  very  fond  of  her,  but  she  ought  to  have  spared  him." — She 
paused  a  moment.  "  All  the  same  if  I  had  not  promised  Lady 
Aldham  to  stay  on — as  she's  so  poorly— I  should  have  gone 
out  of  town  when  I  found  the  Calmadys  had  come  up." 


292  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

*'  Oh  !  it  goes  as  far  as  that,  does  it  ?  "  Ludovic  murmured. 

"  I  don't  Hke  to  see  them  witli  all  these  people.  The  extent 
to  which  he  is  petted  and  fooled  becomes  rather  horrible." 

"  Are  you  not  slightly — I  ask  it  with  all  due  deference  and 
humility — just  slightly  merciless?" 

"No,  no,"  the  girl  answered  earnestly.  "I  don't  think  I'm 
that.  The  women  who  run  after  him,  and  flatter  him  so  out- 
rageously, are  really  more  merciless  than  I  am.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  like  him — I  can't  like  him,  somehow.  But  I'm  growing  most 
tremendously  sorry  for  him.  And  still  more  sorry  for  his  mother. 
She  was  very  grand — a  person  altogether  satisfying  to  one's 
imagination  and  sense  of  fitness,  at  home,  with  that  noble  house 
and  park  and  racing-stable  for  setting.  But  here,  she  is  shorn 
of  her  glory  somehow." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  with  lazy  grace. 

"She  is  cheapened.  And  that's  a  pity.  There  are  more 
than  enough  pretty  cheap  people  among  us  already. — I  must 
go.  There's  Sir  Reginald  looking  for  me. — If  I  could  be  sure 
Lady  Calmady  hated  it  all  I  should  be  more  reconciled." 

"  Possibly  she  does  hate  it  all;  only  that  it  presents  itself  as 
the  least  of  two  evils." 

"There  is  a  touch  of  dancing  dogs  about  it,  and  that  distresses 
me,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  continued.  "It  is  Lady  Calmady's  role 
to  be  apart,  separate  from  and  superior  to  the  rest." 

"The  thing's  being  done  as  well  as  it  can  be,"  Mr.  Quayle 
put  in  mildly. 

"  It  shouldn't  be  done  at  all,"  the  girl  declared. — "  Here  I 
am,  Sir  Reginald.     You  want  to  go  on  ?     I'm  quite  ready." 


CHAPTER  III 


IN    WHICH    KATHEKIXK    TRIES    TO    XAIL    UP    THE    WEATHER-GLASS 

TO    "  SET    KAIll  " 

IT  is  to  be  feared  that  intimate  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Calmady's  present  attitude  of  mind  would  not  have  proved 
altogether  satisfactory  to  that  ardent  idealist  Honoria  St.  Quentin. 
For,  unquestionably,  as  the  busy  weeks  of  the  London  season 
went  forward,  Katherine  grew  increasingly  far  from  "  hating  it 
all."  At  first  she  had  found  the  varied  interests  and  persons 
presented  to  her,  the  rapid  interchange  of  thought,  the  constant 
movement  of  society,  slightly  bewildering.     But,  as  Julius  March 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  293 

had  foretold,  old  habits  reasserted  themselves.  The  great  world, 
and  the  ways  of  it,  had  been  familiar  to  her  in  her  youth.  She 
soon  found  herself  walking  in  its  ways  again  with  ease,  and 
speaking  its  language  with  fluency.  And  this,  though  in  itself  of 
but  small  moment  to  her,  procured  her,  indirectly,  a  happiness  as 
greatly  desired  as  it  had  been  little  anticipated. 

For  to  Richard  the  great  world  was,  as  yet,  something  of  an 
undiscovered  country.  Going  forth  into  it  he  felt  shy  and 
dififident,  though  a  lively  curiosity  possessed  him.  The  gentler 
and  more  modest  elements  of  his  nature  came  into  play.  He 
was  sensible  of  his  own  inexperience,  and  turned  with  instinctive 
trust  and  tender  respect  to  her  in  whom  experience  was  not 
lacking.  He  had  never,  so  he  told  himself,  quite  understood 
how  fine  a  lady  his  mother  was,  how  conspicuous  was  her  charm 
and  distinguished  her  intelligence.  And  he  clung  to  her,  grown 
man  though  he  was,  even  as  a  child,  entering  a  bright  room  full 
of  guests,  clings  to  its  mother's  hand,  finding  therein  much 
comfort  of  encouragement  and  support.  He  desired  she  should 
share  all  his  interests,  reckoning  nothing  worth  the  doing  in 
which  she  had  not  a  part.  He  consulted  her  before  each  under- 
taking, talked  and  laughed  over  it  with  her  in  private  afterwards, 
thereby  unconsciously  securing  to  her  halcyon  days,  a  honey- 
moon of  the  heart  of  infinite  sweetness,  so  that  she,  on  her  part, 
thanked  God  and  took  courage. 

And,  indeed,  it  might  very  well  appear  to  Katherine  that  her 
heroic  remedy  was  on  the  road  to  work  an  effectual  cure.  The 
terror  of  lawless  passion  and  of  evil,  provoked  by  that  fair  woman 
clothed  as  with  the  sea-waves,  crowned  and  shod  with  gold, 
whom  she  had  withstood  so  manfully  in  spirit  in  the  wild  autumn 
night,  departed  from  her.  She  began  to  fear  no  more.  For 
surely  her  son  was  wholly  given  back  to  her — his  heart  still  free, 
his  life  still  innocent?  And,  not  only  did  this  terror  depart,  but 
her  anguish  at  his  deformity  was  strangely  lessened,  the  pain  of 
it  lulled  as  by  the  action  of  an  anodyne.  For,  witnessing  the 
young  man's  popularity,  seeing  him  so  universally  courted  and 
welcomed,  observing  his  manifest  power  of  attraction,  she  began 
to  ask  herself  whether  she  had  not  exaggerated  the  misfortune 
of  that  same  deformity  and  the  impediment  that  it  offered  to 
his  career  and  chances  of  personal  happiness.  She  had  been 
morbid,  hy[)crscnsitive.  The  world  evidently  saw  in  his  dis- 
figurement no  such  horror  and  hopeless  bar  to  success  as  she 
had  seen.  It  was  therefore  a  dear  world,  a  world  rich  in  con- 
solation and  promise.  It  smiled  up^n  Richard,  and  so  she 
smiled  upon  it,  gratefully,  trustfully,  finding  in  the  plenitude  of 


294  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her  thankfulness  no  wares  save  honest  ones  set  out  for  sale  in 
the  booths  of  Vanity  Fair.  A  large  hopefulness  arose  in  her. 
She  began  to  form  projects  calculated,  as  she  believed,  to 
perpetuate  the  gladness  of  the  present. 

Among  other  tender  customs  of  Richard's  boyhood  into  which 
Katherine,  at  this  happy  period,  drifted  back  was  that  of  going, 
now  and  again,  to  his  room  at  night,  and  gossiping  with  him,  for 
a  merry  yet  somewhat  pathetic  half-hour,  before  herself  retiring 
to  rest.  It  fell  out  that,  towards  the  middle  of  June,  there  had 
been  a  dinner-party  at  the  Barkings,  on  a  scale  of  magnificence 
unusual  even  in  that  opulent  house.  It  was  not  the  second,  or 
even  the  third,  time  Richard  and  his  mother  had  dined  in  Albert 
Gate.  For  Lady  Louisa  had  proved  the  most  assiduously 
attentive  of  neighbours.  Little  Lady  Constance  Quayle  was 
with  her.  The  young  girl  had  brightened  notably  of  late.  Her 
prettiness  was  enhanced  by  a  timid  and  appealing  playfulness. 
.She  had  been  seized,  moreover,  with  one  of  those  innocent  and 
absorbing  devotions  towards  Lady  Calmady  that  young  girls 
often  entertain  towards  an  elder  woman,  following  her  about 
with  a  sort  of  dog-like  fidelity,  and  watching  her  with  eyes  full  of 
wistful  admiration.  On  the  present  occasion  the  guests  at  the 
Barking  dinner  had  been  politicians  of  distinction  —  members 
of  the  then  existing  Government.  A  contingent  of  foreign 
diplomatists  from  the  various  embassies  had  been  present, 
together  with  various  notably  smart  women.  Later  there  had 
been  a  reception,  largely  attended,  and  music,  the  finest  that 
Europe  could  produce  and  money  could  buy. 

"  Louisa  climbs  giddy  heights,"  Mr.  Quayle  had  said  to 
himself,  with  an  attempt  at  irony.  But,  in  point  of  fact,  he  was 
far  from  displeased,  for  it  appeared  to  him  the  house  of  Barking 
showed  to  uncommon  advantage  to-night. — "Louisa  has  no 
staying  power  in  conversation,  and  her  voice  is  too  loud,  but 
in  snippets  she  is  rather  impressive,"  he  added.  "And,  oh! 
how  very  diligent  is  Louisa  !  " 

Driving  home,  Richard  kept  silence  until  just  as  the  brougham 
drew  up,  then  he  said  abruptly  : — 

"Tired?  No — that's  right.  Then  come  and  sit  with  me. 
I  want  to  talk.  I  haven't  an  ounce  of  sleep  in  me  somehow 
to-night." 

It  was  hot,  and  when,  some  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later, 
Katherine  entered  the  big  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor  the 
upper  sashes  of  the  window  were  drawn  low  behind  the  blinds, 
letting  in  the  muffled  roar  of  the  great  city  as  an  undertone  to 
the  intermittent  sound  of  footsteps,  or  the  occasional  passing  of 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  295 

a  belated  carriage  or  cab.  It  formed  an  undertone,  also,  to 
Richard's  memory  of  the  music  to  which  he  had  lately  listened, 
and  the  delight  of  which  was  still  in  his  ears  and  pulsing  in  his 
blood,  making  his  blue  eyes  bright  and  dark  and  curving  his 
handsome  lips  into  a  very  eloquent  smile  as  he  lay  back  against 
the  piled-up  pillows  of  the  bed. 

"Good  heavens,  how  divinely  Morabita  sang."  he  said, 
looking  up  at  his  mother  as  she  stood  looking  down  on  him, 
"  better  even  than  in  Faust  last  night !  I  want  to  hear  her 
again  just  as  often  as  I  can.  Her  voice  carries  one  right  away, 
out  of  oneself,  into  regions  of  pure  and  unmitigated  romance. 
All  things  are  possible  for  the  moment.  One  becomes  as  the 
gods,  omnipotent.  We've,  got  the  box  as  usual  on  Saturday, 
mother,  haven't  we  ?  Do  you  remember  if  she  sings  ?  " 
Katherine  replied  that  the  great  soprano  did  sing. 
"  I'm  glad,"  Richard  said.  "  And  yet  I  don't  know  that  it's 
particularly  wholesome  to  hear  her.  After  being  as  the  gods, 
one  descends  with  rather  too  much  of  a  run  to  the  level  of  the 
ordinary  mortal." — He  turned  on  his  elbow  restlessly,  and  the 
movement  altered  the  lie  of  the  bedclothes,  thereby  disclosing  the 
unsightly  disproportion  of  his  person  through  the  light  blanket 
and  sheet. — "And  if  one's  own  level  happens  unfortunately  to 
be  below  that  of  even  the  ordinary  mortal — well — well — don't 
you  know  "— 

"  My  dear  !"  Katherine  put  in  sofdy. 

Richard  lay  straight  on  his   back  again,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"Sit  down,  do,"  he  said.  "Turn  the  big  chair  round  so 
that  I  may  see  you.  I  like  you  in  that  frilly,  white,  dressing- 
gown  thing.  Don't  be  afraid,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  brute  and 
grumble.  You're  much  too  good  to  me,  and  I  know  I  am 
disgustingly  selfish  at  times.  I  was  this  winter,  but''- 
"The  past  is  past,"  Katherine  put  in  again  very  softly. 
"Yes,  please  (iod,  it  is,"  he  said, — "in  some  ways." — He 
paused,  and  then  sjjoke  as  though  with  an  effort,  returning  from 
some  far  distance  of  thought : — "  ^■es,  I  like  you  in  that  white, 
frilly  thing.  IJut  I  liked  that  new,  black  gown  of  yours  to-night 
too.  You  looked  glorious,  do  you  mind  my  saying  so? 
And  no  woman  walks  as  well  as  you  do.  I  compared,  I 
watched.  'J'hcre's  nothing  more  beautiful  tlian  seeing  a  woman 
walk  really  well— or  a  man  either,  for  that  matter." 

Then  he  caught  at  her  hand  again,  laughing  a  little. — "No, 
I'm  not  going  to  gnmiblc,"  he  said.  "U[)on  my  word,  motlicr, 
1  swear  I'm  not.      Here  let's  talk  about  your  gowns,     I  should 


296  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

like    to   know,    shall    you    never  wear  anything    but    grey   or 
black  ? " 

"  Never,  not  even  to  please  you,  Dickie." 

"  Ah,  that's  so  delicious  with  you  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Every 
now  and  then  you  bring  one  up  short,  one  knocks  one's  head 
against  a  stone  wall !  There  is  an  indomitable  strain  in  you. 
I  only  hope  you've  transmitted  it  to  me.  I'm  afraid  I  need 
stiffening.— I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  quickly  and  courteously, 
"it  strikes  me  I  am  becoming  slightly  impertinent.  But  that 
woman's  voice  has  turned  my  brain  and  loosed  the  string  of  my 
tongue  so  that  I  speak  words  of  unwisdom.  You  enjoyed  her 
singing  too,  though,  didn't  you  ?  I  thought  so,  catching  sight 
of  you  while  it  was  going  on,  attended  by  the  faithful  Ludovic 
and  little  Lady  Constance.  It's  quite  touching  to  see  how  she 
worships  you.  And  wasn't  Miss  St.  Quentin  with  you  too? 
Yes,  I_  thought  so.  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind  about 
Honoria  St.  Quentin,  Sometimes  she  strikes  me  as  one  of  the 
loveliest  women  here— and  she  can  walk,  if  you  like,  it's  a  joy 
to  see  her.  And  then  again,  she  seems  to  me  altogether  too 
long,  and  off-hand  somehow,  and  boyish!  And  then,  too," — 
Richard  moved  his  head  against  the  white  pillows,  and  stared 
up_  at  the  window,  where  the  blind  sucked,  with  small  creaking 
noises,  against  the  top  edge  of  the  open  sash,  —  "  she  fights 
shy  of  me,  and  personal  feehng  militates  against  admiration, 
you  know.  I  am  sorry,  for  I  rather  want  to  talk  to  her  about — 
oh,  well,  a  whole  lot  of  things.  But  she  avoids  me.  I  never 
get  the  opportunity." 

"  My  darling,  don't  you  think  that  is  partly  imagination  ?  " 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  he  answered.  "I  daresay  I  do  indulge 
in  unnecessary  fancies  about  people's  manner  and  so  on.  I 
can't  very  well  be  off  it,  you  know.  And  everyone  is  really 
very  kind  to  me.  Morabita  was  perfectly  charming  when  I 
thanked  her  in  very  floundering  Italian.  It's  a  pity  she's  so 
fat.  But,  never  mind,  the  fat  vanishes,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  when  she  begins  to  sing.— And  old  Barking  is  as 
kind  as  he  can  be.  I  feel  awfully  obliged  to  him,  though  his 
mmistrations  to-night  amounted  to  being  slightly  embarrassing. 
He  brought  me  cabinet  ministers  and  under-secretaries,  and 
gorgeous  Germans  and  Turks,  in  batches— and  even  a  real  live 
Chinaman  with  a  pig-tail.  Mother,  do  you  remember  the 
cabmets  at  home  in  the  Long  Gallery  ?  I  used  to  dream  about 
them.  And  that  Chinaman  gave  me  the  queerest  feeling  to-night. 
It  was  idiotic,  but— did  I  ever  tell  you?— when  I  was  a  little 
chap,   I  was  always  dreaming  about  war  or  something,  from 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  297 

which  I  couldn't  get  away.  Others  could,  but  for  me — from 
circumstances,  don't  you  know — there  was  no  possibility  of 
scuttling.  And  the  Httle  Chinese  figures  on  the  black,  lacquer 
cabinets  were  mixed  up  with  it.  As  I  say,  it  gripped  me  to- 
night in  the  midst  of  all  those  people  and —  Oh  yes  !  old  Barking 
is  very  kind,"'  he  went  on,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "  Only  I  wish 
Lady  Louisa  would  warn  him  he  need  not  trouble  himself  to 
be  amusing.  He  came  and  sat  by  me,  towards  the  end  of  the 
evening,  and  told  me  the  most  inane  stories  in  that  inflated 
manner  of  his.  Verily,  they  were  ancient  as  the  hills,  and  a 
weariness  to  the  spirit.  But  that  good-looking,  young  fellow, 
Decies,  swallowed  them  all  down  with  the  devoutest  attention 
and  laughed  aloud  in  all  that  he  conceived  to  be  the  right  places." 

A  pause  came  in  Richard's  flow  of  words.  He  moved  again 
restlessly  and  clasped  his  hands  under  his  head.  Katherine  had 
seldom  seen  him  thus  excited  and  feverish.  A  sense  of  alarm 
grew  on  her  lest  her  heroic  remedy  was,  after  all,  not  working 
a  wholly  satisfactory  cure.  For  there  was  a  violence  in  his 
utterance  and  in  his  face,  a  certain  recklessness  of  speech  and 
of  demeanour,  very  agitating  to  her. 

"Oh,  everyone's  kind,  awfully  kind,"  he  repeated,  looking 
away  at  the  sucking  blind  again,  "and  I'm  awfully  grateful  to 
them,  but —  Oh  !  I  tell  you,  that  woman's  voice  has  got  me  and 
made  me  drunk,  made  me  mad  drunk.  I  almost  wish  I  had 
never  heard  her.  I  think  I  won't  go  to  the  opera  again.  Emotion 
that  finds  no  outlet  in  action  only  demoralises  one  and  breaks 
up  one's  philosophy,  and  she  makes  me  know  all  that  might  be, 
and  is  not,  and  never,  never  can  be.  Ciood  God  !  what  a 
glorious,  what  an  ama/.ing,  business  I  could  have  made  of  life 
if" —  He  slipped  a  little  on  the  pillows,  had  to  unclasp  his  hands 
hastily  and  press  them  down  on  either  side  him  to  keep  his 
body  fairly  upright  in  the  bed.  His  features  contracted  with 
a  spasm  of  anger. — "  If  I  had  only  had  the  average  chance,"  he 
added  harshly.     "  If  I  had  only  started  with  the  normal  equip- 


ment." 


And,  as  she  listened,  the  old  anguish,  lately  lulled  to  rest 
in  Katherine's  heart,  arose  and  cried  aloud.  But  she  sought 
resolutely  to  stifle  its  crying,  strong  in  faith  and  hope. 

"I  know,  my  dearest,  I  know,"  she  said  pleadingly.  "And 
yet,  since  we  have  been  here,  I  have  thought  perhaps  we  had 
a  little  underrated  both  your  happy  gift  of  i)leasing  and  the 
readiness  of  others  to  be  pleased.  It  seems  to  me,  Dickie,  all 
(l(jors  o{jen  if  you  stretch  out  your  hand.  Well,  my  drar,  I 
would  have  you  go  forward  fearlessly.       I  would  have  you  more 


29S  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ambitious,  more  self-confident.  I  see  and  deplore  my  own 
cowardly  mistake.  Instead  of  hiding  you  away  at  home,  and 
keeping  you  to  myself,  I  ought  to  have  encouraged  you  to  mix 
in  the  world  and  fill  the  position  to  which  both  your  powers 
and  your  birth  entitle  you.  I  was  wrong — I  lament  my  folly. 
But  there  is  ample  time  in  which  to  rectify  my  mistake." 

Richard's  face  relaxed. 

"  I  wonder — I  wonder,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  replied. 

"  You  are  too  sanguine,"  he  said.  "  Your  love  for  me  blinds 
you  to  fact." 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied  again.  "  Love  is  the  only  medium  in 
which  vision  gains  perfect  clearness,  becomes  trustworthy  and 
undistorted." — Instinctively  Katherine  folded  her  hands  as  in 
prayer,  while  the  brightness  of  a  pure  enthusiasm  shone  in  her 
sweet  eyes.  "  That  I  have  learned  beyond  all  possibility  of 
dispute.  It  has  been  given  me,  through  much  tribulation,  to 
arrive  at  that." 

Richard  smiled  upon  her  tenderly,  then,  turning  his  head, 
remained  silent  for  a  while.  The  sullen  roar  of  the  great  city 
invaded  the  quiet  room  through  the  open  windows,  the  heavy 
regular  tread  of  a  policeman  on  his  beat,  a  shrill  whistle  hailing 
a.  hansom  from  a  house  some  few  doors  distant  up  the  square, 
and  then  an  answering  rumble  of  wheels  and  clatter  of  hoofs. 
Richard's  face  had  grown  fierce  again,  and  his  breath  came  quick. 
He  turned  on  his  side,  and  once  more  the  dwarfed  proportions 
of  his  person  became  perceptible.  Lady  Calmady  averted  her 
eyes,  fixing  them  upon  his.  But  even  there  she  found  sad  lack 
of  comfort,  for  in  them  she  read  the  inalienable  distress  and 
desolation  of  one  unhandsomely  treated  by  Nature,  maimed  and 
incomplete.  Even  the  Divine  Light,  resident  within  her,  failed 
to  reconcile  her  to  that  reading.  She  shrank  back  in  protest, 
once  again,  against  the  dealing  of  Almighty  God  with  this  only 
child  of  hers.  And  yet — such  is  the  adorable  paradox  of  a 
living  faith — even  while  shrinking,  while  protesting,  she  flung 
herself  for  support,  for  help,  upon  the  very  Being  who  had 
permitted,  in  a  sense  caused,  her  misery. 

"  Mother,  can  I  say  something  to  you  ? "  Richard  asked, 
rather  hoarsely,  at  last. 

"Anything — in  heaven  or  earth." 

"  But  it  is  a  thing  not  usually  spoken  of  as  I  want  to  speak 
of  it.  It  may  seem  indecent.  You  won't  be  disgusted,  or  think 
me  wanting  in  rcsf)ect  or  in  modesty?" 

"  Surely  not,"  Lady  Calmady  answered  (juietly,  yet  a  certain 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  299 

trembling  took  her,  a  nervousness  as  in  face  of  the  unknown. 
This  strong,  young  creature  developed  forces,  presented  aspects, 
in  his  present  feverish  mood,  with  which  she  felt  hardly  equal  to 
cope. 

"  Mother,  I — I  want  to  marry." 

"  I,  too,  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  consider  that  I  am  debarred  from  marriage  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  no  !"  Katherine  cried,  a  little  sob  in  her  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  with  those  profoundly  desolate 
eyes. 

"  It  would  not  be  wrong  ?  It  would  not  be  otherwise  than 
honourable  ?  "  he  asked. 

If  doubts  arose  within  Katherine  of  the  answer  to  that 
question,  she  crushed  them  down  passionately. 

"No,  my  dearest,  no,"  she  declared.  "It  would  not  be 
wrong — it  could  not,  could  not  be  so — if  she  loved  you,  and  you 
loved  whomsoever  you  married." 

"  But  I'm  not  in  love — at  least  not  in  love  with  any  person 
■who  can  become  my  wife.  Yet  that  does  not  seem  to  me  to 
matter  very  much.  I  should  be  faithful,  no  fear,  to  anyone  who 
was  good  enough  to  marry  me.  Enough  of  love  would  come,  if 
only  out  of  gratitude,  towards  the  woman  who  would  accept  me 
as — as  I  am — and  forgive  that — that  which  cannot  be  helped." 

Again  trembling  shook  Katherine.  So  terribly  much  seemed 
to  her  at  stake  just  then  !  Silently  she  implored  that  wisdom 
and  clear-seeing  might  be  accorded  her.  She  leaned  a  little 
forward  and  taking  his  left  hand  held  it  closely  in  both  hers. 

"Dearest,  that  is  not  all.  Tell  me  all,"  she  said,  "or  I 
cannot  quite  follow  your  thought." 

Richard  flung  his  body  sideways  across  the  bed,  and  kissed 
her  hands  as  they  held  his.  The  hot  colour  rushed  over  his  face 
and  neck,  up  to  the  roots  of  his  close-cropped,  curly  hair.  He 
spoke,  lying  thus  upon  his  chest,  his  face  half  buried  in  the 
sheet. 

"  I  want  to  marry  because — because  I  want  a  child — 1  want 
a  son,"  he  said. 

No  words  came  to  Katherine  just  then.  But  she  disengaged 
one  hand  and  laid  it  upon  the  dear  brown  head,  and  waited  in 
silence  until  the  violence  of  the  young  man's  emotion  had  spent 
itself,  until  the  broad,  muscular  shoulders  had  ceased  to  heave 
and  the  strong,  young  hands  to  grasp  her  wrist.  Suddenly 
Richard  recovered  himself,  sat  up,  rubbing  his  hands  across  his 
eyes,  laughing,  but  with  a  queer  catch  in  liis  voice. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.     "I'm  a  fool,  an  awful  fool. 


300  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

HatiL^  Morabita  and  her  voice  and  the  golden  houses  of  the  gods, 
and  beastly,  showy  omnipotence,  to  which  her  voice  carries  one 
away  !  To  talk  sense — mother — ^just  brutal  common  sense.  My 
fate  is  fixed,  you  know.  There's  no  earthly  use  in  wriggling.  I 
am  condemned  to  live  a  cow's  life  and  die  a  cow's  death. — The 
pride  of  life  may  call,  but  I  can't  answer.  The  great  prizes  are 
not  for  me.  I'm  too  heavily  handicapped.  I  was  looking  at  that 
young  fellow,  Decies,  to-night,  and  considering  his  chances  as 
against  my  own —  Oh !  I  know  there's  wealth  in  plenty.  The 
pasture's  green  enough  to  make  many  a  man  covet  it,  and  the 
stall's  well  bedded-down.  I  don't  complain.  Only,  mother,  you 
know — I  know.  Where's  the  use  of  denying  that  which  we 
neither  of  us  ever  really  forget? — And  then  sometimes  my  blood 
takes  fire.  It  did  to-night.  And  the  splendour  of  living  being 
denied  me,  I — I — am  tempted  to  say  a  Black  Mass.  One  must 
take  it  out  somehow.  And  I  know  I  could  go  to  the  devil  as  few 
men  have  ever  gone,  magnificently,  detestably,  with  subtleties 
and  refinements  of  iniquity." 

He  laughed  again  a  little.  And,  hearing  him,  his  mother's 
heart  stood  still. 

"  Verily,  I  have  advantages  !  "  he  continued.  "  There  should 
be  a  picturesqueness  in  my  descent  to  hell  which  would  go  far 
to  place  my  name  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  those  sinners  who 
have  achieved  immortality  " — 

"  Richard  !  Richard  !  "  Lady  Calmady  cried,  "  do  you  want  to 
break  my  heart  quite  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered,  simply.  "I'd  infinitely  rather  not 
break  your  heart.  I  have  no  ambition  to  see  my  name  in  that 
devil's  list  except  as  an  uncommonly  ironical  sort  of  second  best. 
But  then  we  must  make  some  change,  some  radical  change.  At 
times,  lately,  I've  felt  as  if  I  was  a  caged  wild  beast— blinded, 
its  claws  cut,  the  bars  of  its  cage  soldered  and  riveted,  no  hope 
of  escape,  and  yet  the  vigour,  the  immense  longing  for  freedom 
and  activity,  there  all  the  while." 

Richard  stretched  himself. 

"  Poor  beast,  poor  beast,  poor  beast !  "  he  said,  shaking  his 
head  and  smiling.  "  I  tell  you  I  get  absurdly  sentimental  over 
it  at  times." 

And  then,  happily,  there  came  a  momentary  lapse  in  the 
entirety  of  his  egoism.  He  turned  on  his  side,  took  Lady 
Calmady's  hand  again,  and  fell  to  playing  absently  with  her 
bracelets. 

"  Vou  poor  darling,  how  I  torture  you  !  "  he  said.  "  And  yet, 
now  we've  once  broken  the  ice  and  begun  talking  of  all  this,  we're 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  301 

bound  to  talk  on  to  the  finish — if  finish  there  is.  You  see  these 
few  weeks  in  London — Pve  enjoyed  them — but  still  they've 
made  me  understand,  more  than  ever,  all  I've  missed.  Life  calls, 
mother,  do  you  see?  And  though  the  beast  is  blind,  and  his 
claws  are  cut,  and  his  cage  bolted,  yet,  when  life  calls,  he  must 
answer — must — or  run  mad — or  die — do  you  see  ?  " 

"  And  you  shall  answer,  my  beloved.  Never  fear,  you  will 
answer,"  Katherine  replied  proudly. 

Richard's  hand  closed  hard  upon  hers. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "You  were  made  to  be  a  mother  of 
heroes,  not  of  a  useless  log  like  me. — And  that's  just  why  I  want 
to  be  good.  And  to  be  good  I  want  a  wife,  that  I  may  have 
that  boy.  I  could  keep  straight  for  him,  mother,  though  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  keep  straight  for  myself,  and  simply  because  it's 
right,  much  longer.  I  want  him  to  have  just  all  that  I  am  denied. 
I  want  him  to  restore  the  balance,  both  for  you  and  for  me.  I 
may  have  something  of  a  career  myself,  perhaps,  in  politics  or 
something.  It's  possible  ;  but  that  will  come  later,  if  it  comes  at 
all.  And  then  it  would  be  for  his  sake.  What  I  want  first  is 
the  boy,  to  give  me  an  object  and  keep  up  my  pluck,  and  keep 
me  steady.  I,  giving  him  life,  shall  find  my  life  in  him,  be  paid 
for  my  wretched  circumscribed  existence  by  his  goodly  and 
complete  one.  He  may  be  clever  or  not — I'd  rather,  of  course, 
he  was  not  quite  a  dunce — but  1  really  don't  very  much  mind, 
so  long  as  he  isn't  an  outrageous  fool,  if  he's  only  an  entirely 
sound  and  healthy  human  animal." 

Richard  stretched  himself  upon  the  bed,  straightened  the 
sheet  across  his  chest,  and  clasped  his  hands  under  his  head 
again.  The  desolation  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  look  afar  into  the  future,  and  therein  see  manly  satisfaction 
and  content.     His  voice  was  vibrant,  rising  to  a  kind  of  chant. 

"  He  shall  run,  and  he  shall  swim,  he  shall  fence,  and  he  shall 
row,"  he  said.  "  He  shall  learn  all  gallant  sports,  as  becomes  an 
English  gentleman.  And  he  shall  ride, — not  as  I  ride,  God 
forbid  !  like  a  monkey  strapped  on  a  dog  at  a  fair,  but  as  a 
centaur,  as  a  young  demigod.  We  will  set  him,  stark  naked,  on 
a  bare-backed  liorse,  and  see  that  he's  clean-limbed,  perfect, 
without  spot  or  blemish,  from  head  to  heel." 

And  once  more  Katherine  Calmady  held  her  peace,  some- 
what amazed,  somewhat  tremulous,  since  it  seemed  to  her  the 
young  man  was  drawing  a  checjue  upon  the  future  which  might, 
only  too  probaljjy,  be  dishonoured  and  returned  marked  "no 
account."  For  who  dare  say  tliat  this  child  would  ever  come  to 
the  birth,  or,  coming,  what  form  it  would  bear?     Yet,  even  so, 


j02  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

she  rejoiced  in  her  son  and  the  high  spirit  he  displayed,  while 
the  instinct  of  romance  which  inspired  his  speech  touched  an 
answering  chord  in,  and  uplifted,  her. 

By  now  the  brief  June  night  was  nearly  spent.  The  blind 
still  creaked  against  the  open  window  sash,  but  the  thud  of 
horse-hoofs  and  beat  of  passing  footsteps  had  become  infrequent, 
while  the  roar  of  the  mighty  city  had  dwindled  to  a  murmur, 
as  of  an  ebbing  tide  upon  a  shallow,  sand-strewn  beach.  The 
after-light  of  the  sunset,  walking  the  horizon,  beneath  the  Pole 
star  from  west  to  east,  broadened  upward  now  towards  the 
zenith.  Even  here,  in  the  heart  of  London,  the  day  broke 
with  a  spacious  solemnity.  Richard  raised  himself,  and, 
sitting  up,  blew  out  the  candles  placed  on  the  table  at  the 
bedside. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "will  you  let  in  the  morning?" 

Lady  Calmady  was  pale  from  her  long  vigil,  and  her  unspoken, 
yet  searching,  emotion.  She  appeared  very  tall,  ghostlike  even, 
in  her  soft,  white  raiment,  as  she  moved  across  and  drew  up  the 
sucking  blind.  Above  the  grey  parapets  of  the  houses,  and  the 
ranks  of  contorted  chimney-pots,  the  loveliness  of  the  summer 
dawn  grew  wide.  Warm  amber  shaded  through  gradations  of 
exquisite  and  nameless  colour  into  blue.  While,  across  this  last, 
lay  horizontal  lines  of  fringed,  semi-transparent,  opalescent  cloud. 
To  Katherine  those  heavenly  blue  interspaces  spoke  of  peace,  of 
the  stilling  of  all  strife,  when  the  tragic,  yet  superb,  human  story 
should  at  last  be  fully  told  and  God  be  all  in  all.  She  was  very 
tired.  The  struggle  was  so  prolonged.  Her  soul  cried  out  for 
rest.  And  then  she  reminded  herself,  almost  sternly,  that  the 
Kingdom  of  God  and  the  peace  of  it  is  no  matter  of  time  or  of 
place ;  but  is  within  the  devout  believer,  ever  present,  immediate, 
possessing  his  or  her  soul,  and  by  that  soul  in  turn  possessed. 
Just  then  the  sparrows,  roosting  in  the  garden  of  the  square, 
awoke  with  manifold  and  vociferous  chirping  and  chattering. 
The  voice  from  the  bed  called  to  her. 

"Mother,"  it  said  imperatively,  "come  to  me.  You  are  not 
angry  at  what  I  have  told  you?  You  understand?  You  will 
find  her  for  me?" 

Lady  Calmady  turned  away  from  the  open  window  and  the 
loveliness  of  the  summer  dawn.  She  was  less  tired  somehow. 
God  was  with  her,  so  she  could  not  be  otherwise  than  hopeful. 
Moreover,  the  world  had  proved  itself  very  kind  towards  her  son. 
It  would  not  deny  him  this  last  request,  surely  ? 

"My  dearest,  I  think  I  have  found  her  already,"  Lady 
Calmady  answered. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  303 

Yet,  even  as  she  spoke,  she  faltered  a  little,  recognising  the 
energy  and  strength  manifest  in  the  young  man's  countenance, 
remembering  his  late  discourse,  and  the  pent-up  fires  of  his 
nature  to  which  that  discourse  had  borne  only  too  eloquent 
testimony.  For  who  was  a  young  girl,  but  just  out  of  the  school- 
room, a  girl  in  pretty,  fresh  frocks — the  last  word  of  contemporary 
fashion, — whose  baby  face  and  slow,  wide-eyed  gaze  bore  witness 
to  her  entire  innocence  of  the  great  primitive  necessities,  the 
rather  brutal  joys,  the  intimate  vices,  the  far-ranging  intellectual 
questionings,  which  rule  and  mould  the  action  of  mankind, — who 
was  she,  indeed,  to  cope  with  a  nature  such  as  Richard's  ? 

"  Mother,  tell  me,  who  is  it  ?  " 

And  instinctively  Katherine  fell  to  pleading.  She  sat  down 
beside  the  bed  again  and  smoothed  the  sheet. 

"  Vou  will  be  tender  and  loving  to  her,  Dickie  ?  "  she  said. 
"  For  she  is  young  and  very  gentle,  and  might  easily  be  made 
afraid.  You  will  not  forget  what  is  due  to  your  wife,  to  your 
bride,  in  your  longing  for  a  child?" 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  Richard  demanded  again. 

"  Ludovic's  sister — little  Lady  Constance  Quayle." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"Would  she — would  her  people  consent?"  he  said. 

"  I  think  so.  Judging  by  appearances,  I  am  almost  sure  they 
would  consent." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Richard  lay  still,  looking  at  the 
rosy  flush  that  broadened  in  the  morning  sky  and  touched  the 
bosoms  of  those  delicate  clouds  with  living,  pulsating  colour. 
And  he  flushed  too,  all  his  being  softened  into  a  great  tenderness, 
a  great  shyness,  a  quick  yet  noble  shame.  For  his  whole  attitude 
towards  this  question  of  marriage  changed  strangely  as  it  passed 
from  the  abstract,  from  regions  of  vague  purpose  and  desire, 
to  the  concrete,  to  the  thought  of  a  maiden  with  name  and 
local  habitation,  a  maiden  actual  and  accessible,  whose  image 
he  could  recall,  whose  pretty  looks  and  guileless  speech  he 
knew. 

"  I  almost  wish  she  was  not  Ludovic's  sister,  though,"  he 
remarked  presently.     "  It  is  a  great  deal  to  ask." 

"You  have  a  great  deal  to  offer,"  Katherine  said,  adding: — 
"You  can  care  for  h<-r,  Dickie?" 

He  turned  his  head,  his  lips  working  a  little,  his  flushed  face 
very  young  and  bright. 

"Oh  yes  !  I  can  care  fast  enough,"  he  said.  "And  I  think 
—  I  think  I  could  make  her  happy.  And,  you  see,  already  she 
worshi[)S  you.     We  would   pet   her,  mother,   and   give   her   all 


304  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

manner  of  pretty  things,  and  make  a  little  queen  of  her — and  she 
\vould  be  pleased — she's  a  child,  such  a  child." 

Richard  remained  awake  far  into  the  morning,  till  the  rose 
had  died  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  ascending  smoke  of  many 
kitchen-chimneys  began  to  stain  the  expanse  of  heavenly  blue. 
The  thought  of  his  possible  bride  was  very  sweet  to  him.  But 
when  at  last  sleep  came,  dreams  came  likewise.  Helen  de 
A'allorbes'  perfect  face  arose,  in  reproach,  before  him,  and  her 
azure  and  purple  draperies  swept  over  him,  stifling  and  chok- 
ing him  as  the  salt  waves  of  an  angry  sea.  Then  someone — it  was 
the  comely,  long-limbed,  young  soldier,  Mr.  Decies — whom  he  had 
seen  last  night  at  the  Barkings'  great  party  when  Morabita  sang — 
and  the  soprano's  matchless  voice  was  mixed  up,  in  the  strangest 
fashion,  with  all  these  transactions  —  lifted  Helen  and  all  her 
magic  sea-waves  from  off  him,  setting  him  free.  But,  even  as 
he  did  so,  Dickie  perceived  that  it  Avas  not  Helen,  after  all,  whom 
the  young  soldier  carried  in  his  arms,  but  little  Lady  Constance 
Quayle.  Whereupon,  waking  with  a  start,  Dickie  conceived  a 
wholly  unreasoning  detestation  of  Mr.  Decies ;  while,  along  with 
that,  his  purpose  of  marrying  Lady  Constance  increased  notably, 
waxed  strong  and  grew,  putting  forth  all  manner  of  fair  flowers 
of  promise  and  of  hope. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    LKSSON    UPON    THE    ELEVENTH    COMMANDMENT "  PARENTS 

OBEY    YOLll    CHILDREN " 

A  FAMILY  council  was  in  course  of  holding  in  the  lofty  white- 
and-gold  boudoir,  overlooking  the  Park,  in  Albert  Gate. 
Lady  Louisa  Barking  had  summoned  it.  She  had  also  exer- 
cised a  measure  of  selection  among  intending  members.  For 
instance  Lady  Margaret  and  Lady  Emily — the  former  having  a 
disposition,  in  the  opinion  of  her  elder  sister,  to  put  herself 
forward  and  support  the  good  cause  with  more  zeal  than  discre- 
tion, the  latter  being  but  a  weak-kneed  supporter  of  the  cause  at 
best — were  summarily  dismissed. 

"  It  was  really  perfectly  unnecessary  to  discuss  this  sort  of 
thing  before  the  younger  girls,"  she  said.  "  It  put  them  out  of 
their  place  and  rather  rubbed  the  freshness  off  their  minds.  And 
then  they  would  chatter  among  themselves.  And  it  all  became 
a  little  foolish  and  missy.     They  never  knew  when  to  stop." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  305 

One  member  of  the  Quayle  family,  and  that  a  leading  one, 
had  taken  his  dismissal  before  it  was  given  and,  with  a  nice 
mixture  of  defective  moral-courage  and  good  common-sense, 
had  removed  himself  bodily  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  scene 
of  action.  Lord  Shotover  was  still  in  London.  Along  with  the 
payment  of  his  debts  had  come  a  remarkable  increase  of  cheer- 
fulness. He  made  no  more  allusions  to  the  unpleasant  subject 
of  cutting  his  throat,  while  the  proposed  foreign  tour  had  been 
relegated  to  a  vague  future.  It  seemed  a  pity  not  to  see  the 
season  out.  It  would  be  little  short  of  a  crime  to  miss  Goodwood. 
He  might  go  out  with  Decies  to  India  in  the  autumn,  when  that 
young  soldier's  leave  had  expired,  and  look  (luy  up  a  bit.  He 
would  rather  like  a  turn  at  pig-sticking — and  there  were  plenty  of 
pig,  he  understood,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Agra,  where  his 
brother  was  now  stationed.  On  the  morning  in  question,  Lord 
Shotover,  in  excellent  spirits,  had  walked  down  Piccadilly  with 
his  father,  from  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street  to  Albert  Gate. 
The  elder  gentleman,  arriving  from  Westchurch  by  an  early  train, 
had  solaced  himself  with  a  share  of  the  by  no  means  ascetic 
breakfast  of  which  his  eldest  son  was  partaking  at  a  little  after 
half-past  ten.  It  was  very  much  too  good  a  breakfast  for  a  person 
in  Lord  Shotovcr's  existing  financial  position — so  indeed  were 
the  rooms — so,  in  respect  of  locality,  was  Jermyn  Street  itself. 
Lord  Fallowfeild  knew  this,  no  man  better.  Yet  he  was  genuinely 
jjleased,  impressed  ev^n,  by  the  luxury  with  which  his  erring  son 
was  surrounded,  and  proceeded  to  praise  his  cook,  praise  his 
valet's  waiting  at  table,  praise  some  fine,  old,  sporting  prints  upon 
the  wall.  He  went  so  far,  indeed,  as  to  chuckle  discreetly — 
immaculately  faithful  husband  though  he  was  —  over  certain 
jjhotographs  of  ladies,  more  fair  and  kind  than  wise,  which  were 
stuck  in  the  frame  of  the  looking-glass  over  the  chimney-piece. 
In  return  for  which  acts  of  good-fellowship  Lord  Shotover  accom- 
panied him  as  far  as  the  steps  of  the  mansion  in  Albert  Gate. 
There  he  paused,  remarking  with  the  most  disarming  frank- 
ness : — 

"  1  would  come  in.  I  want  to  awfully,  I  assure  you.  I  (juiU; 
agree  with  you  about  all  this  affair,  you  know,  and  I  should  un- 
commonly like  to  let  the  others  know  it.  JJut,  between  ourselves, 
Louisa's  been  so  short  with  me  lately,  so  infernally  short — if 
you'll  pardon  my  saying  so — that  it's  become  downright  disagree- 
able to  me  to  run  across  her.  So  I'm  afraid  I  might  only  make 
matters  worse  all  round,  don't  you  know,  il  I  put  in  an  appear- 
ance this  morning.'' 

"  Has  she,  though  ?  "  ejaculated  Lord  Fallowfeild,  in  reference 
20 


306  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

presumably  to  his  eldest  daughter's  reported  shortness.  "My 
dear  boy,  don't  think  of  it.  I  wouldn't  have  you  exposed  to 
unnecessary  unpleasantness  on  any  account." 

Then,  as  he  followed  the  groom-of-the-chambers  up  the  bare, 
white,  marble  staircase — which  struck  almost  vault-like  in  its  chill 
and  silence,  after  the  heat  and  glare  and  turmoil  of  the  great 
thoroughfare  without — he  added  to  himself: — 

*'  Good  fellow,  Shotover.  Has  his  faults,  but  upon  my  word, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  so  have  all  of  us.  Very  good- 
hearted,  sensible  fellow  at  bottom,  Shotover.  Always  responds 
when  you  talk  rationally  to  him.  No  nonsense  about  him." — 
His  lordship  sighed  as  he  climbed  the  marble  stair.  "  Great 
comfort  to  me  at  times  Shotover.  Shows  very  proper  feeling 
on  the  present  occasion,  but  naturally  feels  a  diffidence  about 
expressing  it." 

Thus,  in  the  end,  it  happened  that  the  family  council  con- 
sisted only  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  her  sister  Lady  Alicia 
Winterbotham,  Mr.  Ludovic  Quayle,  and  the  parent  whom  all 
three  of  them  were,  each  in  their  several  ways,  so  perfectly 
willing  to  instruct  in  his  duty  towards  his  children. 

Ludovic,  perhaps,  displayed  less  alacrity  than  usual  in  offer- 
ing good  advice  to  his  father.  His  policy  was  rather  that  of 
masterly  inactivity.  Indeed,  as  the  discussion  waxed  hot — his 
sisters'  voices  rising  slightly  in  tone,  while  Lord  Fallowfeild's 
replies  disclosed  a  vein  of  dogged  obstinacy — he  withdrew  from 
the  field  of  battle  and  moved  slowly  round  the  room  staring 
abstractedly  at  the  pictures.  There  was  a  seductive,  female  head 
by  Greuze,  a  couple  of  reposeful  landscapes  by  Morland,  a  little 
Constable  —  waterways,  trees,  and  distant  woodland,  swept  by 
wind  and  weather.  But  upon  these  the  young  man  bestowed 
scant  attention.  That  which  fascinated  his  gaze  was  a  series  of 
half-length  portraits,  in  oval  frames,  representing  his  parents, 
himself,  his  sisters,  and  brothers.  These  portraits  were  the  work 
of  a  lady  whose  artistic  gifts,  and  whose  prices,  were  alike  modest. 
They  were  in  coloured  chalks,  and  had,  after  adorning  her  own 
sitting-room  for  a  number  of  years,  been  given,  as  a  wedding 
present,  by  Lady  Fallowfeild  to  her  eldest  daughter.  Mr.  Quayle 
reviewed  them  leisurely  now,  looking  over  his  shoulder  now  and 
again  to  note  how  the  tide  of  battle  rolled,  and  raising  his  eye- 
brows in  mute  protest  when  the  voices  of  the  two  ladies  became 
more  than  usually  elevated. 

"  You  see,  papa,  you  have  not  been  here  " —  Lady  Louisa  was 
saying. 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  interrupted  Lord  Fallowfeild.     "  And  very 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  307 

much  I  regret  that  I  haven't.  Should  have  done  my  best  to  put 
a  stop  to  this  engagement  at  the  outset — before  there  was  any 
engagement  at  all,  in  fact." 

"  And  so  you  cannot  possibly  know  how  the  whole  thing — 
any  breaking  off  I  mean — would  be  regarded." 

"Can't  I,  though?"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  "I  know  per- 
fectly well  how  I  should  regard  it  myself." 

"  You  do  not  take  the  advantages  sufficiently  into  considera- 
tion, papa.  Of  course  with  their  enormous  wealth  they  can 
afford  to  do  anything." — Mr.  ^^'interbotham's  income  was  far 
from  princely  at  this  period,  and  Lady  Alicia  was  liable  to  be  at 
once  envious  of,  and  injured  by,  the  riches  of  others.  Her 
wardrobe  was  limited.  She  was,  this  morning,  vexatiously  con- 
scious of  a  warmer  hue  in  the  back  pleats  than  in  the  front 
breadth  of  her  mauve,  cashmere  dress,  sparsely  decorated  with 
bows  of  but  indifferently  white  ribbon. —  "It  has  enabled  them 
to  make  an  immense  success.  One  really  gets  rather  tired  of 
hearing  about  them.  But  everybody  goes  to  their  house,  you 
know,  and  says  that  he  is  perfectly  charming." 

"  Half  the  parents  in  London  would  jump  at  the  chance  of 
one  of  their  girls  making  such  a  marriage," — this  from  Lady 
Louisa. 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  registered  a  con- 
viction that  his  father  did  not  belong  to  that  active,  parental 
moiety.  He  sat  stubbornly  on  a  straight-backed,  white-and-gold 
chair,  his  hands  clasped  on  the  top  of  his  favourite,  gold-headed 
walking-stick.  He  had  refused  to  part  with  this  weapon  on 
entering  the  house.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  authority,  of  security. 
Meanwhile  his  habitually  placid  and  infantile  countenance  wore 
an  expression  of  the  acutest  worry. 

"  Would  they,  though  ?  "  he  said,  in  response  to  his  daughter's 
information  regarding  the  jumping  moiety. — "Well,  I  shouldn't. 
In  point  of  fact,  I  don't.  All  that  you  and  Alicia  IcU  me  may 
be  perfectly  true,  my  dear  Louisa.  I  would  not,  for  a  moment, 
attempt  to  discredit  your  statements.  And  I  don't  wish  to  be 
intemperate. — Stupid  thing  intem[)crance,  sign  of  weakness, 
intemperance. — Still  I  must  repeat,  and  I  do  repeal,  I  repeat 
clearly,  that  I  do  not  approve  of  this  engagement." 

"Did  I  not  prophesy  long,  long  ago  what  my  father's 
attitude  would  be,  Louisa?"  Mr.  (^)uayle  murmured  gently,  over 
his  shoulder. 

Then  he  fell  to  contemplating  the  portrait  of  his  brother 
(iuy,  aged  seven,  who  was  rcjiresented  arrayed  in  a  hrown- 
hoUand  blouse  of  singular  formlessness  confined  at  the  waist  by 


308  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

a  black  leather  belt,  and  carrying,  cupid-like,  in  his  hands  a  bow 
and  arrows  decorated  with  sky-blue  ribbons. — "Were  my  brothers 
and  I  actually  such  appallingly  insipid-looking  little  idiots  ?  "  he 
asked  himself.  "  In  that  case  the  years  do  bring  compensations. 
We  really  bear  fewer  outward  traces  of  utter  imbecility  now." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  harsh  with  you,  my  dears — never  have 
been  harsh,  to  my  knowledge,  with  any  one  of  my  children. 
Believe  in  kindness.  Always  have  been  lenient  with  my 
children  " — 

"And,  as  indirect  consequence  thereof,  note  my  eldest 
brother's  frequent  epistles  to  the  Hebrews  ! "  commented  Mr. 
Quayle  softly.  "The  sweet  simplicity  of  this  counterfeit  pre- 
sentment of  him,  armed  with  a  pea-green  bait-tin  and  jointless 
tishing-rod,  hardly  shadows  forth  the  copious  insolvencies  of 
recent  times ! " 

"  Never  have  approved  of  harshness,"  continued  Lord  Fallow- 
feild.  "  Still  I  do  feel  I  should  have  been  given  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  my  mind  sooner.  I  ought  to  have  been  referred  to 
in  the  first  place.  It  was  my  right.  It  was  due  to  me.  I  don't 
wish  to  assert  my  authority  in  a  tyrannical  manner.  Hate 
tyranny,  always  have  hated  parental  tyranny.  Still  I  feel  that  it 
was  due  to  me.  And  Shotover  quite  agrees  with  me.  Talked 
in  a  very  nice,  gentlemanly,  high-minded  way  about  it  all  this 
morning,  did  Shotover." 

The  two  ladies  exchanged  glances,  drawing  themselves  up 
with  an  assumption  of  reticence  and  severity. 

"  Really  ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Alicia.  "  It  seems  a  pity,  papa, 
that  Shotover's  actions  are  not  a  little  more  in  keeping  with  his 
conversation,  then." 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild  only  grasped  the  head  of  his  walking- 
stick  the  tighter,  congratulating  himself  the  while  on  the  un- 
shakable firmness  both  of  his  mental  and  physical  attitude. 

"  Oh !  ah  !  yes,"  he  said,  rising  to  heights  of  quite  reckless 
defiance.  "  I  know  there  is  a  great  deal  of  prejudice  against 
.Shotover,  just  now,  among  you.  He  alluded  to  it  this  morning 
with  a  great  deal  of  feeling.  He  was  not  bitter,  but  he  is  very 
much  hurt,  is  Shotover.  You  are  hard  on  him,  Alicia.  It  is  a 
painful  thing  to  observe  upon,  but  you  are  hard,  and  so  is  Winter- 
botham.  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  put  it  so  plainly,  but  I  was 
displeased  by  Winterbotham's  tone  about  your  brother,  last  time 
you  and  he  were  down  at  Whitney  from  Saturday  to  Monday." 

"  At  all  events,  papa,  George  has  never  cost  his  parents  a 
single  penny  since  he  left  BaUiol,"  Lady  Alicia  replied,  with  some 
spirit  and  a  very  high  colour. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  309 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild  was  not  to  be  beguiled  into  discussion 
of  side  issues,  though  his  amiable  face  was  crumpled  and 
puckered  by  the  effort  to  present  an  uncompromising  front  to 
the  enemy. 

"Some  of  you  ought  to  have  written  and  informed  me  as 
soon  as  you  had  any  suspicion  of  what  was  likely  to  happen. 
Not  to  do  so  was  underhand.  I  do  not  wish  to  employ  strong 
language,  but  I  do  consider  it  underhand.  Shotover  tells  me  he 
would  have  written  if  he  had  only  known.  But,  of  course,  in 
the  present  state  of  feeling,  he  was  shut  out  from  it  all.  Ludovic 
did  know,  I  presume.  And,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  I  consider 
it  very  unhandsome  of  Ludovic  not  to  have  communicated 
with  nie." 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Quayle  desisted  from  contemplation  of 
the  family  portraits  and  approached  the  belligerents,  threading 
his  way  carefully  between  the  many  tables  and  chairs.  There 
was  much  furniture,  yet  but  few  ornaments,  in  Lady  Louisa's 
boudoir.  The  young  man's  long  neck  was  directed  slightly 
fonvard  and  his  expression  was  one  of  polite  inquiry. 

"  It  is  very  warm  this  morning,"  he  remarked  parenthetically, 
"and,  as  a  family,  we  appear  to  feel  it.  You  did  me  the  honour 
to  refer  to  me  just  now,  I  believe,  my  dear  father  ?  Since  my 
two  younger  sisters  have  been  banished,  it  has  happily  become 
possible  to  hear  both  you,  and  myself,  speak.     You  were  saying  ?  " 

"That  you  might  very  properly  have  written  and  told  me 
about  this  business,  and  given  me  an  opportunity  of  expressing 
my  opinion  before  things  reached  a  head." 

Mr.  Quayle  drew  forward  a  chair  and  seated  himself  with 
mild  deliberation.  Lord  Fallowfeild  began  to  fidget. — "Very 
clever  fellow,  Ludovic,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Wonderfully  cool 
head  " —  and  he  became  suspicious  of  his  own  wisdom  in  having 
made  direct  appeal  to  a  person  thus  distinguished. 

"  I  might  have  written,  my  dear  father.  I  admit  that  I 
might.  But  there  were  difficulties.  To  begin  with,  I — in  this 
f)articular— shared  Shotover's  position.  Louisa  had  not  seen  fit 
to  honour  me  with  her  confidence.—  I  beg  your  pardon,  Louisa, 
you  were  saying  ? — And  so,  you  see,  I  really  hadn't  anything  to 
write  about." 

"But— but — this  young  man  " — Lord  Fallowfeild  was  sensible 
of  a  singular  reluctance  to  mention  the  name  of  his  proposed 
son-in-law — "this  young  Calmady,  you  know,  he's  an  intimate 
friend  of  yours" — 

"  Difficulty  number  two.  I'cr  I  doubled  how  you  would  take 
the  matter "— 


310  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Did  you,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  I'allowfeild,  with  an  appreci- 
able smoothing  of  crumples  and  puckers. 

"  I'm  extremely  attached  to  Dickie  Calmady.  And  I  did  not 
want  to  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel." 

"  Of  course  not,  my  dear  boy,  of  course  not.  Nasty  un- 
pleasant business  putting  spokes  in  other  men's  wheels,  specially 
when  they're  your  friends.     I  acknowledge  that." 

''  I  am  sure  you  do,"  Mr.  Quayle  replied,  indulgently. 
"  You  are  always  on  the  side  of  doing  the  generous  thing,  my 
dear  father, — when  you  see  it." 

Here  his  lordship's  grasp  upon  the  head  of  his  walking-stick 
relaxed  sensibly. 

"Thank  you,  Ludovic.  Very  pleasant  thing  to  have  one's 
son  say  to  one,  I  must  say,  uncommonly  pleasant." — Alas ! 
he  felt  himself  to  be  slipping,  slipping.  "  Deuced  shrewd, 
diplomatic  fellow,  Ludovic,"  he  remarked  to  himself  somewhat 
ruefully.  All  the  same,  the  Httle  compliment  warmed  him 
through.  He  knew  it  made  for  defeat,  yet  for  the  life  of  him  he 
could  not  but  relish  it. — "Very  pleasant,"  he  repeated.  "But 
that's  not  the  point,  my  dear  boy.  Now,  about  this  young  fellow 
Calmady's  proposal  for  your  sister  Constance  ?  " 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  full  at  the  speaker,  and  for  once  his  ex- 
pression held  no  hint  of  impertinence  or  raillery. 

"  Dickie  Calmady  is  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever  fought,  or  won, 
an  almost  hopeless  battle,"  he  said.  "  He  is  somewhat  heroic, 
in  my  opinion.     And  he  is  very  lovable." 

"  Is  he,  though  ? "  Lord  Fallowfeild  commented,  (]uite 
gently. 

"  A  woman  who  understood  him,  and  had  some  idea  of  all 
he  must  have  gone  through,  could  not  well  help  being  very 
proud  of  him." 

Yet,  even  while  speaking,  the  young  man  knew  his  advocacy 
to  be  but  half-hearted.  He  praised  his  friend  rather  than  his 
friend's  contemplated  marriage. — "But  his  dear,  old  lordship's 
not  very  quick.  He'll  never  spot  that,"  he  added  mentally. 
And  then  he  reflected  that  little  Lady  Constance  was  not  very 
quick  either.  She  might  marry  obediently,  even  gladly.  But 
was  it  probable  she  would  develop  sufficient  imagination  ever  to 
understand,  and  therefore  be  proud  of,  Richard  Calmady  ? 

"He  is  brilliant  too,"  Ludovic  continued.  "He  is  as  well 
read  as  any  man  of  his  standing  whom  I  know,  and  he  can  think 
for  himself.  And,  when  he  is  in  the  vein,  he  is  unusually  good 
company." 

'•  Everybody  says  he  is  extraordinarily  agreeable,"  broke  in 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  311 

Lady  Alicia.  "Old  Lady  Combmartin  was  saying  only 
yesterday — George  and  I  met  her  at  the  Aldhams',  Louisa,  you 
know,  at  dinner — that  she  had  not  heard  better  conversation  for 
years.  And  she  was  brought  up  among  Macaulay,  and  Rogers, 
and  all  the  Holland  House  set,  so  her  opinion  really  is  worth 
having." 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild's  grasp  had  tightened  again  upon  his 
walking-stick. 

"  Was  she,  though  ?"  he  said  rather  incoherently. 

"  Pray,  from  all  this,  don't  run  away  with  the  notion  Calmady 
is  a  prig,"  Ludovic  interposed.  "  He  is  as  keen  a  sportsman  as 
you  are — in  as  far,  of  course,  as  sport  is  possible  for  him." 

Here  Lord  Fallowfeild,  finding  himself  somewhat  hard 
pressed,  sought  relief  in  movement.  He  turned  sideways, 
throwing  one  shapely  leg  across  the  other,  grasping  the  sup- 
porting walking-stick  in  his  right  hand,  while  with  the  left  he 
laid  hold  of  the  back  of  the  white-and-gold  chair. 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes, "  he  said  valiantly,  directing  his  gaze  upon 
the  tree-tops  in  the  Park.  "I  ciuite  accept  all  you  tell  me. 
I  don't  want  to  detract  from  your  friend's  merits — poor,  mean 
sort  of  thing  to  detract  from  any  man's  friend's  merits.  Gentle- 
manlike young  fellow  Calmady,  the  little  I  have  seen  of  him — 
reminds  me  of  my  poor  friend  his  father.  I  liked  his  father. 
But,  you  see,  my  dear  boy,  there  is — well,  there's  no  denying 
it,  there  is — and  Shotover  quite" — 

"Of  course,  papa,  we  all  know  what  you  mean,"  Lady 
Louisa  interposed,  with  a  certain  loftiness  and,  it  must  be 
owned,  asperity.  "  I  have  never  pretended  there  was  not  some- 
thing one  had  to  get  accustomed  to.  But  really  you  forget  all 
about  it  almost  immediately — everyone  does— one  can  see  that 
— don't  they,  Alicia  ?  If  you  had  met  Sir  Richard  everywhere, 
as  we  have,  this  season,  you  would  realise  how  very  very  soon 
that  is  quite  forgotten." 

"Is  it,  though?"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild  somewhat  in- 
credulously. His  face  had  returned  to  a  sadly  puckered 
condition. 

"Yes,  I  assure  you,  nobody  thinks  of  it,  after  just  the  first 
little  shock,  don't  you  know," — this  from  Lady  Louisa. 

"I  think  one  feels  it  is  not  quite  nice  to  dwell  on  a  thing  of 
that  kind,"  her  sister  chimed  in,  reddening  again.  "  It  ought 
to  be  ignored." — From  a  girl,  the  sjjeaker  had  enjoyed  a  reputa- 
tion for  great  refinement  of  mind. 

"  I  think  it  amounts  to  being  more  than  not  nice,"  echoed 
Lady  Louisa.     "  I  think  it  is  positively  wrong,  for  nobody  can 


312  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tell  what  accident  may  not  happen  to  any  of  us  at  any  moment. 
And  so  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it  is  not  actually  unchristian 
to  make  a  thing  like  that  into  a  serious  objection." 

"  Vou  know,  papa,  there  must  be  deformed  people  in  some 
families,  just  as  there  is  consumption  or  insanity." 

"  Or  under-breeding,  or  attenuated  salaries,"  Mr.  Quayle 
softly  murmured.  "It  becomes  evident,  my  dear  father,  you 
must  not  expect  too  much  of  sons,  or  I  of  brothers, 
in-law." 

"  Think  of  old  Lord  Sokeington — I  mean  the  great  uncle  of 
the  present  man,  of  course — of  his  temper,"  Lady  Louisa  pro- 
ceeded, regardless  of  ironical  conmient.  "  It  amounted  almost 
to  mania.  And  yet  Lady  Dorothy  Hellard  would  certainly  have 
married  him.     There  never  was  any  question  about  it." 

"Would  she,  though?  Bad,  old  man,  Sokeington.  Never 
did  approve  of  Sokeington." 

"  Of  course  she  would.  Mrs.  Crookenden,  who  always  has 
been  devoted  to  her,  told  me  so." 

"Did  she,  though.?"  .said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  "But  the 
marriage  was  broken  off,  my  dear." 

He  made  this  remark  triumphantly,  feeling  it  showed  great 
acuteness. 

"  Oil,  dear  no !  indeed  it  wasn't,"  his  daughter  replied. 
"Lord  Sokeington  behaved  in  the  most  outrageous  manner. 
At  the  last  moment  he  never  proposed  to  her  at  all.  And 
then  it  came  out  that  for  years  he  had  been  living  with  one 
of  the  still-room  maids." 

"  Louisa  ! "  cried  Lady  Alicia,  turning  scarlet. 

"  Had  he,  though  ?     The  old  scoundrel ! " 

"  Papa,"  cried  Lady  Alicia. 

"So  he  was,  my  dear.  Very  bad  old  man,  Sokeington, 
Very  amusing  old  man  too,  though." 

And,  overcome  by  certain  reminiscences.  Lord  Fallowfeild 
chuckled  a  little,  shamefacedly.  His  second  daughter  thereupon 
arranged  the  folds  of  her  mauve  cashmere,  with  bent  head. — "  It 
is  very  clear  papa  and  Shotover  have  been  together  to-day,"  she 
thought.  "Shotover's  influence  over  papa  is  always  demoralis- 
ing. It's  too  extraordinary  the  subjects  men  joke  about  and  call 
amusing  when  they  get  together." 

A  pause  followed,  a  brief  cessation  of  hostilities,  during  which 
Mr.  Quayle  looked  inquiringly  at  his  three  companions. 

"Alicia  fancies  herself  shocked,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
my  father  fancies  himself  wicked,  and  Louisa  fancies  herself  a 
chosen  vessel.     Strong  delusion  is  upon  them  all.     The  only 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP 


j)i  J 


question  is  whose  delusion  is  the  strongest,  and  who,  con- 
sequently, will  first  renew  the  fray  ?  Ah  !  the  chosen  vessel ! 
I  thought  as  much." 

"  You  see,  papa,  one  really  must  be  practical,"  Lady  Louisa 
began  in  clear,  emphatic  tones.  "We  all  know  how  you  have 
spoiled  Constance.  She  and  Shotover  have  always  been  your 
favourites.  But  even  you  must  admit  that  Shotover's  wretched 
extravagance  has  impoverished  you,  and  helped  to  impoverish 
all  your  other  children.  And  you  must  also  admit,  notwith- 
standing your  partiality  for  Constance,  that " — 

"  I  want  to  see  Connie.  I  want  to  hear  from  herself  that 
she '' —  broke  out  Lord  Fallowfeild.  His  kindly  heart  yearned 
over  this  ewe-lamb  of  his  large  flock.  But  the  eldest  of  the 
said  flock  interposed  sternly. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  pray,  papa,  not  yet.  Connie  is  quite 
contented  and  reasonable — I  believe  she  is  out  shopping  just 
now,  too.  And  while  you  are  in  this  state  of  indecision  yourself, 
it  would  be  the  greatest  mistake  for  you  to  see  her.  It  would 
only  disturb  and  upset  her — wouldn't  it,  Alicia  ?  " 

And  the  lady  thus  appealed  to  assented.  It  is  true  that 
when  she  arrived  at  the  great  house  in  Albert  Gate  that 
morning  she  had  found  little  Lady  Constance  with  her  pretty, 
baby  face  sadly  marred  by  tears.  But  she  had  put  that  down 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  situation.  All  young  ladies  of  refined 
mind  cried  under  kindred  circumstances.  Had  she  not  herself 
wept  copiously,  for  the  better  part  of  a  week,  before  finally 
deciding  to  accept  George  Winterbotham  ?  Moreover,  a  point 
of  jealousy  undoubtedly  pricked  Lady  Alicia  in  this  connection. 
She  was  far  from  being  a  cruel  woman,  but,  comparing  her  own 
modest  material  advantages  in  marriage  with  the  surprisingly 
handsome  ones  offered  to  her  little  sister,  she  could  not  be 
wholly  sorry  that  the  latter's  rose  was  not  entirely  without  thorns. 
That  the  flower  in  question  should  have  been  thornless,  as  well 
as  so  very  fine  and  large,  would  surely  have  trenciied  on  injustice 
to  herself.  This  thought  had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  influenced 
her  when  enlarging  on  the  becomingness  of  a  refined  indiflerence 
to  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  deformity.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
was  disposed,  perhaps  unconsciously,  to  hail  rather  than  deplore 
the  fact  of  that  same  deformity.  For  did  it  not  tend  sub- 
jectively to  equalise  her  lot  and  that  of  her  little  sister,  and 
modify  the  otherwise  humiliating  disparity  of  their  respective 
fortunes?  Therefore  she  ca[)pcd  Lady  Louisa's  speech,  by 
saying  immediately:  — 

"Yes,  indeed,  papa,  it  would  only  be  an  unkindness  to  run 


314  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

any  risk  of  upsetting  Connie.  No  really  nice  girl  ever  really 
quite  likes  the  idea  of  marriage  " — 

"Doesn't  she,  though?"  commented  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with 
an  air  of  receiving  curious,  scientific  information. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not !  How  could  she  ?  And  then,  papa,  you 
know  how  you  have  always  indulged  Connie  " — Lady  Alicia's 
voice  was  slightly  peevish  in  tone.  She  was  not  in  very  good 
health  at  the  present  time,  with  the  consequence  that  her  face 
showed  thin  and  bird-like.  While,  notwithstanding  the  genial 
heat  of  the  summer's  day,  she  presented  a  starved  and  chilly 
appearance. — "Always  indulged  C^onnie,"  she  repeated,  "and 
that  has  inclined  her  to  be  rather  selfish  and  fanciful." 

The  above  statements,  both  regarding  his  own  conduct  and 
the  eflect  of  that  conduct  upon  his  little  ewe-lamb,  nettled  the 
amiable  nobleman  considerably.  He  faced  round  upon  the 
speaker  with  an  intention  of  reprimand,  but  in  so  doing  his  eyes 
were  arrested  by  his  daughter's  faded  dress  and  disorganised 
complexion.  He  relented. — "  Poor  thing  looks  ill,"  he  thought. 
"  A  man's  an  unworthy  brute  who  ever  says  a  sharp  word  to  a 
woman  in  her  condition." — -And,  before  he  had  time  to  find  a 
word  other  than  sharp,  Lady  Louisa  Barking  returned  to  the 
charge. 

"  Exactly,"  she  asserted.  "  Alicia  is  perfectly  right.  At 
present  Connie  is  quite  reasonable.  And  all  we  entreat,  papa, 
is  that  you  will  let  her  remain  so,  until  you  have  made  up  your 
own  mind.  Do  pray  let  us  be  dignified.  One  knows  how  the 
servants  get  hold  of  anything  of  this  kind  and  discuss  it,  if  there 
is  any  want  of  dignity  or  any  indecision.  That  is  too  odious. 
And  I  must  really  think  just  a  little  of  Mr.  Barking  and  myself 
in  the  matter.  It  has  all  gone  on  in  our  house,  you  see.  One 
must  consider  appearances,  and  with  all  the  recent  gossip  about 
Shotover,  we  do  not  want  another  esclafuin — the  servants  know- 
ing all  about  it  too.  And  then,  with  all  your  partiality  for 
Constance,  you  cannot  suppose  she  will  have  many  opportunities 
of  marrying  men  with  forty  or  fifty  thousand  a  year." 

"  No,  papa,  as  Louisa  says,  in  your  partiality  for  Connie  you 
must  not  entirely  forget  the  claims  of  your  other  children.  She 
must  not  be  encouraged  to  think  exclusively  of  herself,  and  it  is 
not  fair  that  you  should  think  exclusively  of  her.  I  know  that 
George  and  I  are  poor,  but  it  is  through  no  fault  of  our  own.  He 
most  honourably  refuses  to  take  anything  from  his  mother,  and 
you  know  how  small  my  private  income  is.  Yet  no  one  can 
accuse  George  of  lack  of  generosity.  When  any  of  my  family 
want  to  come  to  us  he  always  makes  them  welcome.     Maggie 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  315 

only  left  us  last  Thursday,  and  Emily  comes  to-morrow.  I  know 
we  can't  do  much.  It  is  not  possible  with  our  small  means  and 
establishment.  But  what  little  we  can  do,  George  is  most  willing 
should  be  done."' 

"  Excellent  fellow  Winterbotham,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  put  in 
soothingly.     "Very  steady,  painstaking  man  Winterbotham." 

His  second  daughter  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Thank  you,  papa,"  she  said.  "I  own  I  was  a  little  hurt 
just  now  by  the  tone  in  which  you  alluded  to  George." 

*'  Were  you,  though  ?  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,  my  dear 
Alicia.  Hate  to  hurt  anybody,  specially  one  of  my  own  children. 
Unnatural  thing  to  hurt  one  of  your  own  children.  But  you  see 
this  feeling  of  all  of  you  about  Shotover  has  been  very  painful 
to  me.  I  never  have  liked  divisions  in  families.  Never  know 
where  they  may  lead  to.  Nasty,  uncomfortable  things  divisions 
in  families." 

"Well,  papa,  I  can  only  say  that  divisions  are  almost  invari- 
ably caused  by  a  want  of  the  sense  of  duty." — Lady  Louisa's 
voice  was  stern.  "  And  if  people  are  over-indulged  they  become 
selfish,  and  then,  of  course,  they  lose  their  sense  of  duty." 

"My  sister  is  a  notable  logician,"  Mr.  Quayle  murmured, 
under  his  breath.  "  If  logic  ruled  life,  how  clear,  how  simple  our 
course  !     But  then,  unfortunately,  it  doesn't." 

"Shotover  has  really  no  one  but  himself  to  thank  for  any 
bitterness  that  his  brothers  and  sisters  may  feel  towards  him. 
He  has  thrown  away  his  chances,  has  got  the  whole  family  talked 
about  in  a  most  objectionable  manner,  and  has  been  a  serious 
encumbrance  to  you,  and  indirectly  to  all  of  us.  We  have  ail 
suffered  quite  enough  trouble  and  annoyance  already.  And  so 
I  must  protest,  papa,  I  must  very  strongly  and  definitely  protest, 
against  Connie  being  permitted,  still  more  encouraged,  to  do 
exactly  the  same  thing." 

Lord  Fallowfeild,  still  grasping  his  walking-stick, — though  he 
could  not  but  fear  that  trusted  weapon  had  proved  faithless  and 
sadly  failed  in  its  duty  of  support, — gazed  distractedly  at  the 
speaker.  Visions  of  Jewish  money-lenders,  of  ladies  more  fair 
and  kind  than  wise,  of  guinea  points  at  whist,  of  the  prize  ring, 
of  Baden-Baden,  of  Newmarket  and  Doncastcr,  aro.se  con- 
fusedly before  him.  What  the  deuce, — lie  did  not  like  bad 
language,  but  really, — what  the  dickens,  had  all  these  to  do  with 
his  ewe-lamb,  innocent,  little  Constance,  her  virgin-white  body 
and  soul,  and  her  sweet,  wide-eyed  prettiness  ? 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  no  doubt  you  know  what  you  mean,  but  I 
give  you  my  word  1  don't,"  he  began. 


3i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAUY 

"  Hear,  hear,  my  dear  father,"  put  in  Mr.  Quayle.  "There  I 
am  with  you.  Louisa's  wing  is  strong,  her  range  is  great.  I 
myself,  on  this  occasion,  find  it  not  a  little  difficult  to  follow 
her." 

"  Nonsense,  Ludovic,"  almost  snapped  the  lady.  "  You 
follow  me  perfectly,  or  can  do  so  if  you  use  your  common  sense. 
Papa  must  face  the  fact,  that  Constance  cannot  afford — that  we 
cannot  afford  to  have  her — throw  away  her  chances,  as  Shotover 
has  thrown  away  his.  We  all  have  a  duty,  not  only  to  ourselves, 
but  to  each  other.  Inclination  must  give  way  to  duty — though 
I  do  not  say  Constance  exhibits  any  real  disinclination  to  this 
marriage.  She  is  a  little  flurried.  As  Alicia  said  just  now,  every 
really  nice-minded  girl  is  flurried  at  the  idea  of  marriage.  She 
ought  to  be.  I  consider  it  only  delicate  that  she  should  be.  But 
she  understands — I  have  pointed  it  out  to  her— that  her  money, 
her  position,  and  those  two  big  houses — Brockhurst  and  the  one 
in  Lowndes  Square — will  be  of  the  greatest  advantage  to  the  girls 
and  to  her  brothers.  It  is  not  as  if  she  was  nobody.  The 
scullery-maid  can  marry  whom  she  likes,  of  course.  But  in  our 
rank  of  life  it  is  different.  A  girl  is  bound  to  think  of  her  family, 
as  well  as  of  herself.     She  is  bound  to  consider  " — 

The  groom-of-the-chambers  opened  the  door  and  advanced 
solemnly  across  the  boudoir  to  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  Sir  Richard  Calmady  is  in  the  smoking-room,  my  lord,"  he 
said,  "  to  see  you." 


CHAPTER  y 

IPHIGENIA 

CHASTENED  in  spirit,  verbally  acquiescent,  yet  unconvinced, 
a  somewhat  pitiable  sense  of  inadequacy  upon  him.  Lord 
Fallowfeild  travelled  back  to  Westchurch  that  night.  Two  days 
later  the  morning  papers  announced  to  all  whom  it  might  concern, 
— and  that  far  larger  all,  whom  it  did  not  really  concern  in  the 
least — in  the  conventional  phrases  common  to  such  announce- 
ments, that  Sir  Richard  Calmady  and  Lady  Constance  Quayle 
had  agreed  shortly  to  become  man  and  wife.  Thus  did  Katherine 
Calmady,  in  all  trustfulness,  strive  to  give  her  son  his  desire, 
while  the  great  and  little  world  looked  on,  and  made  comments 
various  as  the  natures  and  circumstances  of  the  units  composing 
them. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  317 

Lady  Louisa  was  filled  with  the  pride  of  victory.  Her 
venture  had  not  miscarried.  At  church  on  Sunday — she  was 
really  too  busy  socially,  just  now,  to  attend  what  it  was  her 
habit  to  describe  as  "odds  and  ends  of  week-day  services,"  and 
therefore  worshipped  on  the  Sabbath  only,  and  then  by  no  means 
in  secret  or  with  shut  door — she  repeated  the  General  Thanksgiving 
with  much  unction  and  in  an  aggressively  audible  voice.  And 
Lady  Alicia  Winterbotham  expressed  a  peevish  hope  that — "such 
great  wealth  might  not  turn  Constance's  head  and  make  her  just 
a  little  vulgar.  It  was  all  rather  dangerous  for  a  girl  of  her  age, 
and  she" — the  speaker — "trusted  i'6'w^/Wv  would  point  out  to 
Connie  the  heavy  responsibilities  towards  others  such  a  position 
brought  with  it."  And  Lord  Shotover  delivered  it  as  his  opinion 
that — "  It  might  be  all  right.  He  hoped  to  goodness  it  was,  for 
he'd  always  been  uncommonly  fond  of  the  young  'un.  But  it 
Seemed  to  him  rather  a  put-up  job  all  round,  and  so  he  meant 
just  to  keep  his  eye  on  Con,  he  swore  he  did."  In  furtherance  of 
which  laudable  determination  he  braved  his  eldest  sister's  frowns 
with  heroic  intrepidity,  calling  to  see  the  young  girl  whenever 
all  other  sources  of  amusement  failed  him,  and  paying  her  the 
compliment — as  is  the  habit  of  the  natural  man,  when  unselfishly 
desirous  of  giving  pleasure  to  the  women  of  his  family — of  talking 
continuously  and  exclusively  about  his  own  affairs,  his  gains  at 
cards,  his  losses  on  horses,  even  recounting,  in  moments  of  more 
than  ordinarily  expansive  affection,  the  less  wholly  disreputable 
episodes  of  his  many  adventures  of  the  heart.  And  Honoria  St. 
(^uentin's  sensitive  face  straightened  and  her  lips  closed  rather 
tight  whenever  the  marriage  was  mentioned  before  her.  She 
refused  to  express  any  view  on  the  subject,  and  to  that  end 
took  rather  elaborate  i)ains  to  avoid  the  society  of  Mr.  Quayle. 
And  Lady  Dorothy  Hellard — whose  unhappy  disappointment 
in  respect  of  the  late  Lord  Sokeington  and  other  nonsuccessful 
excursions  in  the  direction  of  wedlock,  had  not  cured  her  of 
sentimental  leanings — asserted  that — "  It  was  quite  the  most 
romantic  and  touching  engagement  she  had  ever  heard  of." 
To  which  speech  her  mother,  the  Dowager  Lady  Combmartin, 
replied,  with  the  directness  of  statement  which  made  her  ac- 
quaintance so  cautious  of  differing  from  her:  —  "Touching? 
Romantic  ?  Fiddle-de-dee  !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
for  thinking  so  at  your  age,  Dorothy.  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  and 
in  my  opinion  the  bride  has  got  much  the  best  of  it.  For  she's 
a  mawkish,  milk-and-water,  little  schofjlgirl,  while  he  is  charming 
— all  there  is  of  him.  If  there'd  been  a  litlle  more  I  declare  1(1 
have  married  him  myself."     And  good-looking  Mr.  Decies,  of  the 


3i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

lOTst  Lancers,  got  into  very  hot  water  with  the  mounted  con- 
stables, and  with  the  livery-stable  keeper  from  whom  he  hired 
his  hacks,  for  "furious  riding"  in  the  Park.  And  Julius  March 
walked  the  paved  ways  and  fragrant  alleys  of  the  red-walled 
gardens  at  Brockhurst,  somewhat  sadly,  in  the  glowing  June 
twilights,  meditating  upon  the  pitiless  power  of  change  which 
infects  all  things  human,  and  of  his  own  lifelong  love  doomed  to 
'•find  no  earthly  close."  And  Mrs.  Chifney,  down  at  the  racing- 
stables,  rejoiced  to  the  point  of  tears,  being  possessed  by  the 
persistent  instinct  of  matrimony  common  to  the  British,  lower 
middle-class.  And  Sandyfield  parish  rejoiced  likewise,  and  pealed 
its  church-bells  in  token  thereof,  foreseeing  much  carnal  gratifica- 
tion in  the  matter  of  cakes  and  ale.  And  Madame  de  Vallorbes, 
whose  letters  to  Richard  had  come  to  be  pretty  frequent  during 
the  last  eight  months,  was  overtaken  by  silence  and  did  not  write 
at  all. 

But  this  omission  on  the  part  of  his  cousin  was  grateful,  rather 
than  distressing,  to  the  young  man.  It  appeared  to  him  very 
sympathetic  of  Helen  not  to  write.  It  showed  a  finely,  imagin- 
ative sensibility  and  considerateness  on  her  part,  which  made 
Dickie  sigh,  thinking  of  it,  and  then,  so  to  speak,  turn  away  his 
head.  And  to  do  this  last  was  the  less  difficult  that  his  days 
were  very  full  just  now.  And  his  mind  was  very  full,  likewise, 
of  gentle  thoughts  of,  and  many  provisions  for,  the  happiness  of 
his  promised  bride. 

The  young  girl  was  timid  in  his  presence,  it  is  true.  Yet  she 
was  transparently,  appealingly,  anxious  to  please.  Her  conversa- 
tion was  neither  ready  nor  brilliant,  but  she  was  very  fair  to  look 
upon  in  her  childlike  freshness  and  innocence.  A  protective 
element,  a  tender  and  chivalrous  loyalty,  entered  into  Richard's 
every  thought  of  her.  A  great  passion  and  a  happy  marriage 
were  two  quite  separate  matters — so  he  argued  in  his  inexperi- 
ence. And  this  was  surely  the  wife  a  man  should  desire,  modest, 
guileless,  dutiful,  pure  in  heart  as  in  person  ?  The  gentle 
dumbness  which  often  held  her  did  not  trouble  him.  It  was  a 
pretty  pastime  to  try  to  win  her  confidence  and  open  the  doors  of 
her  artless  speech. 

And  then,  to  Richard,  tempted  it  is  true,  but  as  yet  himself 
unsullied,  it  was  so  sacred  and  wonderful  a  thing  that  this 
s[)otless  woman-creature  in  all  the  fragrance  of  her  youth 
belonged  to  him  in  a  measure  already,  and  would  belong  to  him, 
before  many  weeks  were  out,  wholly  and  of  inalienable  right. 
And  so  it  happened  that  the  very  limitations  of  the  young  girl's 
nature  came  to  enhance  her  attractions.     Dickie  could  not  get 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  319 

very  near  to  her  mind,  but  that  merely  piqued  his  curiosity  and 
provoked  his  desire  of  discovery.  She  was  to  him  as  a  book 
written  in  strange  character,  difficult  to  decipher.  With  the  result 
that  he  accredited  her  with  subtleties  and  many  fine  feelings  she 
did  not  really  possess,  while  he  failed  to  divine — not  from 
defective  sympathy  so  much  as  from  absorption  in  his  self-created 
idea  of  her — the  very  simj)le  feelings  which  actually  animated 
her.  His  masculine  pride  was  satisfied,  in  that  so  eligible  a 
maiden  consented  to  become  his  wife.  His  moral  sense  was 
satisfied  also,  since  he  had — as  he  supposed — put  temptation 
from  him  and  chosen  the  better  part.  Very  certainly  he  was 
not  violently  in  love.  That  he  supposed  to  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  But  he  was  quietly  happy.  While  ahead  lay  the  mysterious 
enchantments  of  marriage.  Dickie's  heart  was  very  tender, 
just  then.  Life  had  never  turned  on  him  a  more  gracious 
face. 

Nevertheless,  once  or  twice,  a  breath  of  distrust  dimmed 
the  bright  surface  of  his  existing  complacency.  One  day,  for 
instance,  he  had  taken  his  fiancee  for  a  morning  drive  and 
brought  her  home  to  luncheon.  After  that  meal  she  should  sit 
for  a  while  with  Lady  Calmady,  and  then  join  him  in  the  library 
downstairs,  for  he  had  that  which  he  coveted  to  show  to  her. — But 
it  appeared  to  him  that  she  tarried  unduly  with  his  mother,  and 
he  grew  impatient  waiting  through  the  long  minutes  of  the 
summer  afternoon.  A  barrel-organ  droned  slumberously  from 
the  other  side  of  the  square,  while  to  his  ears,  so  long  attuned 
to  country  silences  or  the  (juick,  intermittent  music  of  nature, 
the  ceaseless  roar  of  London  l)ecame  burdensome.  Ever  after, 
thinking  of  this  first  wooing  of  his,  he  recalled — as  slightly 
sinister — that  ever-present  murmur  of  traffic, — bearing  testimony, 
as  it  seemed  later,  to  the  many  activities  in  which  he  could  play, 
after  all,  but  so  paltry  and  circumscribed  a  ])art. 

And,  listening  to  that  same  murmur  now,  something  of 
rebellion  against  circumstance  arose  in  Dickie  for  all  that  the 
{)resent  was  very  good.  For,  as  he  considered,  any  lover  other 
than  himself  would  not  sit  pinned  to  an  arm-chair  awaiting  his 
mistress'  coming,  but,  did  she  delay,  would  go  to  seek  her,  claim 
her,  and  bear  her  merrily  away.  'I'hc  organ-grinder,  meanwhile, 
cheered  by  a  copper  shower  from  some  adjacent  balcony,  turned 
the  handle  of  his  instrument  more  vigorously,  letting  loose  stirring 
valse-tune  and  march  upon  the  sultry  air.  Such  music  was,  of 
necessity,  somcwliat  comff)rtless  hearing  to  Richard,  debarred 
alike  from  deeds  of  arms  or  joy  of  dancing.  His  impatience 
increased.      It  was  a  little  inconsiderate  of  his  mother  surely  to 


320  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

detain  Constance  for  so  long !  But  just  then  the  sound  of 
women's  voices  reached  him  through  the  half-open  door.  The 
two  ladies  were  leisurely  descending  the  stairs.  There  was  a 
little  pause,  then  he  heard  Lady  Calmady  say,  as  though  in 
gentle  rebuke : — 

"  No,  no,  dear  child,  I  will  not  come  with  you.  Richard 
would  like  better  to  see  you  alone.  Too,  I  have  a  number  of 
letters  to  write.  I  am  at  home  to  no  one  this  afternoon.  You 
will  lind  me  in  the  sitting-room  here.  You  can  come  and  bid 
me  good-bye — now,  dear  child,  go." 

Thus  admonished.  Lady  Constance  moved  forward.  Yet,  to 
Dickie's  listening  ears,  it  appeared  that  it  took  her  an  inordinate 
length  of  time  to  traverse  the  length  of  the  hall  from  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  to  the  library  door.  And  there  again  she 
paused  —  the  organ,  now  nearer,  rattling  out  the  tramp  of  a 
popular  military  march.  But  the  throb  and  beat  of  the  quick- 
step failed  to  hasten  Lady  Constance's  lagging  feet,  so  that 
further  rebellion  against  his  own  infirmity  assaulted  poor 
Dick. 

At  length  the  girl  entered  with  a  little  rush,  her  soft  cheeks 
flushed,  her  rounded  bosom  heaving,  as  though  she  arrived  from 
a  long  and  arduous  walk,  rather  than  from  that  particularly 
deliberate  traversing  of  the  cool  hall  and  descent  of  the  airy 
stairway. 

"  Ah  I  here  you  are  at  last,  then  ! "  Richard  exclaimed.  "  I 
began  to  wonder  if  you  had  forgotten  all  about  me." 

The  young  girl  did  not  attempt  to  sit  down,  but  stood 
directly  in  front  of  him,  her  hands  clasped  loosely,  yet  somewhat 
nervously,  almost  in  the  attitude  of  a  child  about  to  recite  a 
lesson.  Her  still,  heifer's  eyes  were  situate  so  far  apart  that 
Dickie,  looking  up  at  her,  found  it  difficult  to  focus  them  both 
at  the  same  glance.  And  this  produced  an  effect  of  slight  un- 
certainty, even  of  a  defect  of  vision,  at  once  pathetic  and  quaintly 
attractive.  Her  face  was  heart-shaped,  narrowing  from  the  wide, 
low  brow  to  the  small,  rounded  chin  set  below  a  round,  babyish 
mouth  of  slight  mobility  but  much  innocent  sweetness.  Her 
light,  brown  hair,  rising  in  an  upward  curve  on  either  side  the 
straight  parting,  was  swept  back  softly,  yet  smoothly,  behind  her 
small  ears.  The  neck  of  her  white,  alpaca  dress,  cut  square 
according  to  the  then  prevailing  fashion,  was  outlined  with  flat 
bands  of  pale,  blue  ribbon,  and  filled  up  with  lace  to  the  base  of 
the  round  column  of  her  throat.  Blue  ribbons  adorned  the  hem 
of  her  simple  skirt,  and  a  band  of  the  same  colour  encircled  her 
shanely,  though  not  noticeably  slender,  waist.     Her  bosom  was 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  321 

rather  full  for  so  young  a  woman  ;  so  that,  notwithstanding  her 
perfect  freshness  and  air  of  almost  childlike  simplicity,  there  was 
a  certain  statuesque  quality  in  the  effect  of  her  white-clad  figure 
seen  thus  in  the  shaded  library,  with  its  russet-red  walls  and 
ranges  of  dark  bookshelves. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "  I  should  have  come 
sooner,  but  I  was  talking  to  Lady  Calmady,  and  I  did  not  know 
it  was  so  late.  I  am  not  afraid  of  talking  to  Lady  Calmady,  she 
is  so  very  kind  to  me,  and  there  are  many  questions  I  wanted 
to  ask  her.  She  promises  to  help  and  tell  me  what  I  ought  to 
do.  And  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  It  will  prevent  my  making 
mistakes." 

Her  attitude  and  the  earnestness  of  her  artless  speech  were 
to  Richard  almost  pathetically  engaging.  His  irritation  vanished. 
He  smiled,  looked  up  at  her,  his  own  face  flushing  a  little. 

"  I  don't  fancy  you  will  ever  make  any  very  dangerous 
mistakes  !"  he  said. 

"Ah!  but  I  might,"  the  girl  insisted.  "You  see  I  have 
always  been  told  what  to  do." 

"Always?"  Dickie  asked,  more  for  the  pleasure  of  watching 
her  stand  thus  than  for  any  great  importance  he  attached  to 
her  answer. 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  she  said.  "  First  by  our  nurses,  and  then  by 
our  governesses.  They  were  not  always  very  kind.  They  called 
me  obstinate.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  be  obstinate.  Only  they 
spoke  in  French  or  German,  and  I  could  not  always  understand. 
And  since  I  have  grown  up  my  elder  sisters  have  told  me  what 
I  ought  to  do." 

It  seemed  to  Richard  that  the  girl's  small,  round  chin 
trembled  a  little,  and  that  a  look  of  vague  distress  invaded 
her  soft,  ruminant,  wide-set  eyes. 

"  And  so  I  should  have  been  very  frightened,  now,  unless  I 
had  had  Lady  Calmady  to  tell  me." 

"Well,  I  think  there's  only  one  thing  my  mother  will  need 
to  tell  you,  and  it  won't  run  into  either  French  or  German.  It 
can  be  stated  in  very  plain  English.  Just  to  do  whatever  you 
like,  and— and  be  hai)ijy." 

Lady  Constance  stared  at  the  speaker  with  her  air  of  gentle 
perplexity.  As  she  did  so  undoubtedly  her  pretty  chin  did 
tremble  a  little. 

"Ah!  but  to  do  what  you  like  can  never  really  make  you 
happy,"  she  said, 

"Can't  it?  I'm  not  altogether  so  sure  of  that.  I  had 
ventured  to  suppose  there  were  a  number  of  things  you  and  I 
21 


322  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

would  do  in  the  future,  which  will  be  most  uncommonly  pleasant 
without  being  conspicuously  harmful." 

He  leaned  sideways,  stretching  out  to  a  neighbouring  chair 
with  his  right  hand,  keeping  the  light,  silk-woven,  red  blanket 
up  across  his  thighs  with  his  left. 

"  Do  sit  down,  Constance,  and  we  will  talk  of  things  we  both 
like  to  do,  at  greater  length —  Ah  !  bother — forgive  me — I  can't 
reach  it." 

"  Oh !  please  don't  trouble.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  can  get 
it  quite  well  myself,"  Lady  Constance  said,  quite  quickly  for 
once.  She  drew  up  the  chair  and  sat  down  near  him,  folding 
her  hands  again  nervously  in  her  lap.  All  the  colour  had  died 
out  of  her  cheeks.  They  were  as  white  as  her  rounded  throat. 
She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  Richard's  face,  and  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell,  while  her  words  came  somewhat  gaspingly.  Still  she 
talked  on  with  a  touching  little  effect  of  determined  civility. 

"  Lady  Calmady  was  very  kind  in  telling  me  I  might  some- 
times go  over  to  Whitney,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  that.  I 
am  afraid  papa  will  miss  me.  Of  course  there  will  be  all  the 
others  just  the  same.  But  I  go  out  so  much  with  him.  Of 
course  I  would  not  ask  to  go  over  very  often,  because  I  know 
it  might  be  inconvenient  for  me  to  have  the  horses." 

"But  you  will  have  your  own  horses,"  Richard  answered. 
"  I  wrote  to  Chifney  to  look  out  for  a  pair  of  cobs  for  you  last 
week — browns  —  you  said  you  liked  that  colour  I  remember. 
And  I  told  him  they  were  to  be  broken  until  big  guns,  going  off 
under  their  very  noses,  wouldn't  make  them  so  much  as  wince." 

"  Are  you  buying  them  just  for  me  ?  "  the  girl  said. 

"Just  for  you?"  Dickie  laughed.  "Why,  who  on  earth 
should  I  buy  anything  for  but  just  you,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"  But " —  she  began. 

" But — but" —  he  echoed,  resting  his  hands  on  the  two  arms 
of  his  chair,  leaning  forward  and  still  laughing,  though  some- 
what shyly.  "  Don't  you  see  the  whole  and  sole  programme  is 
that  you  should  do  all  you  like,  and  have  all  you  like,  and — and 
be  happy." — Richard  straightened  himself  up,  still  looking  full 
at  her,  trying  to  focus  both  these  quaintly-engaging,  far-apart 
eyes.  "Constance,  do  you  never  play?"  he  asked  her 
suddenly. 

"  I  did  practise  every  morning  at  home,  but  lately" — 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  mean  that,"  the  young  man  said.  "  I  mean 
quite  another  sort  of  playing." 

"Games  ?"  Lady  Constance  inquired.     "I  am  afraid  I  am 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  323 

rather  stupid  about  games.  I  find  it  so  difficult  to  remember 
numbers  and  words,  and  I  never  can  make  a  ball  go  where  I 
want  it  to,  somehow." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  games  either,  exactly,"  Richard  said, 
smiling. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  some  perplexity.  Then  she  spoke 
again,  with  the  same  little  effect  of  determined  civility. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  dancing  and  of  skating.  The  ice  was 
very  good  on  the  lake  at  Whitney  this  winter.  Rupert  and 
Gerry  were  home  from  Eton,  and  Eddy  had  brought  a  young 
man  down  with  him — Mr.  Hubbard — who  is  in  his  business  in 
Liverpool,  and  a  friend  of  my  brother  Guy's  was  staying  in  the 
house  too,  from  India.  I  think  you  have  met  him — Mr.  Decies. 
We  skated  till  past  twelve  one  night — a  Wednesday,  I  think. 
There  was  a  moon,  and  a  great  many  stars.  The  thermometer 
registered  fifteen  degrees  of  frost  Mr.  Decies  told  me.  But  I 
was  not  cold.     It  was  very  beautiful." 

Richard  shifted  his  position.  The  organ  had  moved  farther 
away.  Uncheered  by  further  copper  showers  it  droned  again 
slumberously,  while  the  murmur  sent  forth  by  the  thousand 
activities  of  the  great  city  waxed  loud,  for  the  moment,  and 
hoarsely  insistent. 

"I  do  not  bore  you?"  Lady  Constance  asked,  in  sudden 
anxiety. 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  Richard  answered.  "  I  am  glad  to  have  you 
tell  me  about  yourself,  if  you  will ;  and  all  that  you  care  for." 

Thus  encouraged,  the  girl  took  up  her  little  parable  again,  her 
sweet,  rather  vacant,  face  growing  almost  animated  as  she  spoke. 

"  We  did  something  else  I  liked  very  much,  but  from  what 
Alicia  said  afterwards  I  am  afraid  I  ought  not  to  have  liked  it. 
One  day  it  snowed,  and  we  all  played  hide-and-seek.  There 
are  a  number  of  attics  in  the  roof  of  the  bachelor's  wing  at 
Whitney,  and  there  are  long  up-and-down  passages  leading 
round  to  the  old  nurseries.  Mama  did  not  mind,  but  Alicia 
was  very  displeased.  She  said  it  was  a  mere  excuse  for  romping. 
]5ut  that  was  not  true.  Of  course  we  never  thought  of  roni[)ing. 
We  did  make  a  great  noise,"  she  added  conscientiously,  "  but 
that  was  Rupert  and  Gerry's  fault.  They  would  jump  out  after 
promising  not  to,  and  of  cDursc  it  was  impossible  to  helj)  scream- 
ing. Eddy's  Liverpool  friend  tried  to  junij)  out  too,  but  Maggie 
snubbed  him.  I  think  he  deserved  it.  You  ought  to  play  fair; 
don't  you  think  so?  After  promising,  you  would  never  jump 
out,  would  you  ?" 

And  there  Lady  Constance  stopped,  with  a  little  gasp. 


324  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  forgot,"  she 
added  breathlessly. 

Richard's  face  had  become  thin  and  keen. 

"  Forget  just  as  often  as  you  can,  please,"  he  answered 
huskily.  "  I  would  infinitely  rather  have  you — have  everybody 
— forget  altogether — if  possible." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  think  that  would  be  wrong  of  me,"  she  rejoined, 
with  gentle  dogmatism.  "  It  is  selfish  to  forget  anything  that  is 
very  sad." 

"  And  is  this  so  very  sad  ?  "  Richard  asked,  almost  harshly. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  with  parted  lips. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  she  said  slowly.  "  Of  course, — don't  you  think 
so?  It  is  dreadfully  sad." — And  then,  her  attitude  still  un- 
changed and  her  pretty,  plump  hands  still  folded  on  her  lap,  she 
went  on,  in  her  touching  determination  to  sustain  the  conversa- 
tion with  due  readiness  and  civility.  "  Brockhurst  is  a  much 
larger  house  than  Whitney,  isn't  it  ?  I  thought  so  the  day  we 
drove  over  to  luncheon — when  that  beautiful,  French  cousin  of 
yours  was  staying  with  you,  you  remember?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  Richard  said. 

And  as  he  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  clothed  in  the  sea- 
waves,  crowned  and  shod  with  gold,  seemed  to  stand  for  a 
moment  beside  his  innocent,  little  fiancee.  How  long  it  was 
since  he  had  heard  from  her  !  Did  she  want  money,  he  wondered  ? 
It  would  be  intolerable  if,  because  of  his  marriage,  she  never  let 
him  help  her  again.  And  all  the  while  Lady  Constance's  un- 
emotional, careful,  little  voice  continued,  as  did  the  ceaseless 
murmur  of  London. 

"I  remember,"  she  was  saying,  "because  your  cousin  is  quite 
the  most  beautiful  person  I  have  ever  seen.  Papa  admired  her 
very  much  too.  We  spoke  of  that  as  soon  as  Louisa  had  left 
us,  when  we  were  alone.  But  there  seemed  to  me  so  many 
staircases  at  Brockhurst,  and  rooms  opening  one  out  of  the 
other.  I  have  been  wondering — since— lately — whether  I  shall 
ever  be  able  to  find  my  way  about  the  house." 

"  I  will  show  you  your  way,"  Dickie  said  gently,  banishing 
the  vision  of  Helen  de  Vallorbes. 

"You  will  show  it  me ?"  the  girl  asked,  in  evident  surprise. 

Then  a  companion  picture  to  that  of  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
arose  before  Dickie's  mental  vision — namely  the  good-looking, 
long-legged,  young,  Irish  soldier,  Mr.  Decies,  of  the  loist 
lancers,  flying  along  the  attic  passages  of  the  Whitney  bachelor's 
wing,  in  company  with  this  immediately-so-demure  and  dutiful 
maiden  and  all   the   rest   of  that  admittedly  rather  uproarious, 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  325 

holiday  throng.  Thereat  a  foolish  lump  rose  in  poor  Richard's 
throat,  for  he  too  was,  after  all,  but  young.  He  choked  the 
foolish  lump  down  again.     Yet  it  left  his  voice  a  trifle  husky, 

"Yes,  I  will  show  you  your  way,"  he  said.  "I  can  manage 
that  much,  you  know,  at  home,  in  private,  among  my  own  people. 
Only  you  mustn't  be  in  a  hurry.  I  have  to  take  my  time.  You 
must  not  mind  that.     I — I  go  slowly." 

"  But  that  will  be  much  better  for  me,"  she  answered,  with 
rather  humble  courtesy,  "because  then  I  am  more  likely  to 
remember  my  way.  I  have  so  much  difficulty  in  knowing  my 
way.  I  still  lose  myself  sometimes  in  the  park  at  Whitney.  I 
did  once  this  winter  with — my  brother  Guy's  friend,  Mr.  Decies. 
The  boys  always  tease  me  about  losing  my  way.  Even  papa 
says  I  have  no  bump  of  locality.  I  am  afraid  I  am  stupid  about 
that.  My  governesses  always  complained  that  I  was  a  very 
thoughtless  child." 

Lady  Constance  unfolded  her  hands.  Her  timid,  engagingly 
vague  gaze  dwelt  appealingly  upon  Richard's  handsome  face. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  will  go  now,"  she 
said.  "  I  must  bid  Lady  Calmady  good-bye.  We  dine  at  Lady 
Combmartin's  to-night.  You  dine  there  too,  don't  you  ?  And 
my  sister  Louisa  may  want  me  to  drive  with  her,  or  write  some 
notes,  before  I  dress." 

"Wait  half  a  minute,"  Dickie  said.  "I've  got  something  for 
you.     Let's  see —     Oh  !  there  it  is  ! " 

Raising  himself  he  stood,  for  a  moment,  on  the  seat  of  the 
chair,  steadying  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  it,  and 
reached  a  little,  silver-paper  covered  parcel  from  the  neighbouring 
table.  Then  he  slipped  back  into  a  sitting  position,  drew  the 
silken  blanket  up  across  his  thighs,  and  tossed  the  little  parcel 
gently  into  Lady  Constance  Quayle's  lap. 

"  I  as  near  as  possible  let  you  go  without  it,"  he  said.  "  Not 
that  it's  anything  very  wonderful.  It's  nothing — only  I  saw  it  in 
a  shop  in  liond  Street  yesterday,  and  it  struck  me  as  rather  quaint. 
I  thought  you  might  like  it.  Why — but — Constance,  what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

For  the  girl's  pretty,  heart-shaped  face  had  blanched  to  the 
whiteness  of  her  white  dress.  Her  eyes  were  strained,  as  those 
of  one  who  beholds  an  object  of  terror.  Not  only  her  chin  but 
her  round,  baby  mouth  trembled.  Richard  looked  at  Iht, 
amazed  at  these  evidences  of  distressing  emotion.  Then 
suddenly  he  understood. 

"  I  frighten  you.     How  horrible  !  "  he  said. 

But  little  Lady  Constance  had  not  suffered  persistent  training 


2,26  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

at  the  hands  of  nurses,  and  governesses,  and  elder  sisters,  during 
all  her  eighteen  years  of  innocent  living  for  nothing.  She  had 
her  own  small  code  of  manners  and  morals,  of  honour  and  duty, 
and  to  the  requirements  of  that  code,  as  she  apprehended  them, 
she  yielded  unqualified  obedience,  not  unheroic  in  its  own  meagre 
and  rather  puzzle-headed  fashion.  So  that  now,  notwithstanding 
trembling  lips,  she  retained  her  intention  of  civility  and  entered 
immediate  apology  for  her  own  Aveakness. 

"  No,  no,  indeed  you  do  not,"  she  replied.  "  Please  forgive 
me.  I  know  I  was  very  foolish.  I  am  so  sorry.  You  are  so  kind 
to  me,  you  are  always  giving  me  beautiful  presents,  and  indeed 
I  am  not  ungrateful.  Only  I  had  never  seen — seen — you  like 
that  before.  And,  please  forgive  me — I  will  never  be  foolish 
again — indeed,  I  will  not.  But  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  shall  be  so  dreadfully  unhappy  if  you  do  not 
forgive  me." 

And  all  the  while  her  shaking  hands  fumbled  helplessly 
with  the  narrow  ribbon  tying  the  dainty  parcel,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  slowly  out  of  her  great,  soft,  wide-set,  heifer's  eyes. 
Never  was  there  more  moving  or  guileless  a  spectacle  !  Witnessing 
which,  Richard  Calmady  was  taken  somew-hat  out  of  himself, 
his  personal  misfortune  seeming  matter  inconsiderable,  while  his 
childlike  fiancee  had  never  appeared  more  engaging.  All  the 
sweetest  of  his  nature  responded  to  her  artless  appeal  in  very 
tender  pity. 

"Why,  my  dear  Constance,"  he  said,  "there's  nothing  to 
forgive.  I  was  foolish,  not  you.  I  ought  to  have  known  better. 
Never  mind.  I  don't.  Only  wipe  your  pretty  eyes,  please.  Yes 
— that's  better.  Now  let  me  break  that  tiresome  ribbon  for 
you." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  the  girl  murmured.  Then,  as 
the  ribbon  broke  under  Richard's  strong  fingers,  and  the  delicate 
necklace  of  many,  roughly-cut,  precious  stones — topaz,  amethyst, 
sapphire,  ruby,  chrysolite,  and  beryl,  joined  together,  three  rows 
deep,  by  slender,  golden  chains  —  slipped  from  the  enclosing 
paper  wrapping  into  her  open  hands,  Constance  Quayle  added, 
rather  tearfully  : — "Oh  !  you  are  much  too  kind  !  You  give  me 
too  many  things.  No  one  I  know  ever  had  such  beautiful 
presents.  The  cobs  you  told  me  of,  and  now  this,  and  the 
pearls,  and  the  tiara  you  gave  me  last  week.  I — I  don't 
deserve  it.  You  give  me  too  much,  and  I  give  nothing  in 
return." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do!"  Richard  said,  flushing.  "You— you 
give  me  yourself." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  327 

Lady  Constance's  tears  ceased.  Again  she  stared  at  him  in 
gentle  perplexity. 

"You  promise  to  marry  me" — 

"  Yes,  of  course,  I  have  promised  that,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  And  isn't  that  about  the  greatest  giving  there  can  be  ?  A 
few  horses,  and  jewels,  and  such  rubbish  of  sorts,  weigh  pretty 
light  in  the  balance  against  that — I  being  I  " — Richard  paused  a 
moment — "and  you — you." 

But  a  certain  ardour  which  had  come  into  his  speech,  for  all 
that  he  sat  very  still,  and  that  his  expression  was  wholly  gentle 
and  indulgent,  and  that  she  felt  a  comfortable  assurance  that  he 
was  not  angry  with  her,  rather  troubled  little  Lady  Constance 
Quayle.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before  him  again,  as  a 
child  about  to  recite  a  lesson. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I  must  go.  Louisa  may  want  me. 
Thank  you  so  much.  This  necklace  is  quite  lovely.  I  never 
saw  one  like  it.  I  like  so  many  colours.  They  remind  me  of 
flowers,  or  of  the  colours  at  sunset  in  the  sky.  I  shall  like  to 
wear  this  very  much.  You — you  will  forgive  me  for  having  been 
foolish — or  if  I  have  bored  you  ?  "  ^ 

Her  bosom  rose  and  fell,  and  the  words  came  breathlessly. 

"  I  shall  see  you  at  Lady  Combmartin's  ?  So — so  now  I 
will  go." 

And  with  that  she  departed,  leaving  Richard  more  in  love 
with  her,  somehow,  than  he  had  ever  been  before  or  had  ever 
thought  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IS    WHICH    HOXORIA    ST.    QUENTIX    TAKES    THE   FIELD 

IT  had  been  agreed  that  the  marriage  should  take  place,  in  the 
country,  one  day  in  the  first  week  of  August.  This  at 
Richard's  request.  Then  the  young  man  asked  a  further 
favour,  namely  that  the  ceremony  might  be  performed  in  the 
private  chapel  at  Ikockhurst,  raliier  than  in  the  Whitney  parish 
church.  This  last  proposal,  it  must  be  owned,  when  made  to 
him  by  Lady  Calmady  caused  Lord  Fallowfeild  great  searchings 
of  heart. 

"I  give  you  my  word,  tny  dear  boy,  I  never  felt  more 
awkward  in  my  life,"  he  said,  subsequently,  to  his  chosen  con- 
fidant, Shotover.  "Can  (]uite  understand  Calmady  doesn't  care 
to    court    publicity.       Told    his    mother    I    quite   understood. 


328  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Shouldn't  care  to  court  it  myself  if  I  had  the  misfortune  to 
share  his — well,  personal  peculiarities,  don't  you  know,  poor 
young  fellow.  Still  this  seems  to  me  an  uncomfortable,  hole 
and  corner  sort  of  way  of  behaving  to  one's  daughter — marrying 
her  at  his  house  instead  of  from  my  own.  I  don't  half  approve 
of  it.  Looks  a  little  as  if  we  were  rather  ashamed  of  the  whole 
business." 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  are,"  Lord  Shotover  remarked. 

"For  God's  sake,  then,  don't  mention  it!"  the  elder  man 
broke  out,  with  unprecedented  asperity.  "  Don't  approve  of 
strong  language,"  he  added  hastily.  "  Never  did  approve  of  it, 
and  very  rarely  employ  it  myself.  An  educated  man  ought  to 
be  able  to  express  himself  quite  sufificiently  clearly  without 
having  recourse  to  it.  Still,  I  must  own  this  engagement  of 
Constance's  has  upset  me  more  than  almost  any  event  of  my 
life.  Nasty,  anxious  work  marrying  your  daughters.  Heavy 
responsibility  marrying  your  daughters.  And,  as  to  this 
particular  marriage,  there's  so  very  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  And  I  admit  to  you,  Shotover,  if  there's  anything  I 
hate  it's  a  case  where  there's  very  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  It  trips  you  up,  you  see,  at  every  turn.  Then  I  feel 
I  was  not  fairly  treated.  I  don't  wish  to  be  hard  on  your 
brother  Ludovic  and  your  sisters,  but  they  sprung  it  upon  me, 
and  I  am  not  quick  in  argument,  never  was  quick,  if  I  am 
hurried.  Never  can  be  certain  of  my  own  mind  when  I 
am  hurried — was  not  certain  of  it  when  Lady  Calmady  pro- 
posed that  the  marriage  should  be  at  Brockhurst.  And  so  I 
gave  way.  Must  be  accommodating  to  a  woman,  you  know. 
Always  have  been  accommodating  to  women — got  myself  into 
uncommonly  tight  places  by  being  so  more  than  once  when  I 
was  younger  " — 

Here  the  speaker  cheered  up  visibly,  contemplating  his 
favourite  son  with  an  air  at  once  humorous  and  contrite. 

"You're  well  out  of  it,  you  know,  Shotover,  with  no 
ties,"  he  continued,  "at  least,  I  mean,  with  no  wife  and  family. 
Not  that  I  don't  consider  every  man  owning  property  should 
marry  sooner  or  later.  More  respectable  if  you've  got  property 
to  marry,  roots  you  in  the  soil,  gives  you  a  stake,  you  know,  in 
the  future  of  the  country.  But  I'd  let  it  be  later — yes,  thinking 
of  marriageable  daughters,  certainly  I'd  let  it  be  later." 

From  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  Richard's  demands 
were  conceded  at  all  points.  And  this  last  concession 
involved  many  preparations  at  Brockhurst,  to  effect  which 
Lady  Calmady  left  London  with   the  bulk   of  the   household 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  329 

about  the  middle  of  July,  while  Richard  remained  in  Lowndes 
Square  and  the  neighbourhood  of  his  little  ^auct'e — in  company 
with  a  few  servants  and  many  brown  holland  covers — till  such 
time  as  that  young  lady  should  also  depart  to  the  country.  It 
was  just  now  that  Lady  Louisa  Barking  gave  her  annual  ball, 
always  one  of  the  latest,  and  this  year  one  of  the  smartest, 
festivities  of  the  season. 

"  I  mean  it  to  be  exceedingly  well  done,"  she  said  to  her 
sister  Alicia.  "And  Mr.  Barking  entirely  agrees  with  me.  I 
feel  I  owe  it  not  only  to  myself,  but  to  the  rest  of  the  family  to 
show  that  none  of  us  see  anything  extraordinary  in  Connie's 
marriage,  and  that  whatever  Shotover's  debts  may  have  been,  or 
may  be,  they  are  really  no  concern  at  all  of  ours." 

In  obedience  to  Avhich  laudable  determination  the  handsome 
mansion  in  Albert  Gate  opened  wide  its  portals,  and  all  London 
— a  far  from  despicable  company  in  numbers,  since  Parliament 
was  still  sitting  and  the  session  promised  to  be  rather  in- 
definitely prolonged — crowded  its  fine  stairwajs  and  suites  of 
lofty  rooms,  resplendent  in  silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  laces,  in 
orders  and  titles,  and  manifold  personal  distinctions  of  wealth,  or 
office,  or  beauty,  while  strains  of  music  and  scent  of  flowers  per- 
vaded the  length  and  breadth  of  it,  and  the  feet  of  the  dancers 
sped  over  its  shining  floors. 

It  chanced  that  Honoria  St.  Quentin  found  herself,  on  this 
occasion,  in  a  meditative,  rather  than  an  active,  mood.  True,  the 
scene  was  remarkably  brilliant.  But  she  had  witnessed  too 
many  parallel  scenes  to  be  very  much  affected  by  that.  So 
it  pleased  her  fancy  to  moralise,  to  discriminate — not  without  a 
delicate  sarcasm — between  actualities  and  appearances,  between 
the  sentiments  which  might  be  divined  really  to  animate  many  of 
the  guests,  and  those  conventional  presentments  of  sentiment 
which  the  manner  and  bearing  of  the  said  guests  indicated.  She 
assured  Lord  Shotover  she  would  rather  not  dance,  that  she 
preferred  the  attitude  of  spectator,  whereupon  that  gentleman 
proposed  to  her  to  take  sanctuary  in  a  certain  ante-chamber, 
opening  off  I^dy  Louisa  Barking's  boudoir,  which  was  cool, 
dimly  lighted,  and  agreeably  remote  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
entertainment  now  at  its  height. 

The  acquaintance  of  these  two  persons  was,  in  as  far  as  time 
and  the  nuniljcr  of  their  meetings  went,  l)ut  slight,  and,  at  first 
sight,  their  tastes  and  temperaments  would  seem  wide  asunder  as 
the  poles.  But  contrast  can  form  a  strong  bond  of  union.  And 
the  young  man,  when  his  fancy  was  engaged,  was  among  those 
who   do   not   waste    time   over   i)reliminaries.      If  pleased,    he 


330  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAUY 

bundled,  neck  and  crop,  into  intimacy.  And  Miss  St.  Quentin, 
her  fearless  speech,  her  amusingly  detached  attitude  of  mind,  and 
her  gallant  bearing,  pleased  him  mightily  from  a  certain  point 
of  view.  He  pronounced  her  to  be  a  "  first-rate  sort,"  and 
entertained  a  shrewd  suspicion  that,  as  he  put  it,  Ludovic  "  was 
after  her."  He  commended  his  brother's  good  taste.  He 
considered  she  would  make  a  tip-top  sister-in-law.  While  the 
young  lady,  on  her  part,  accepted  his  advances  in  a  friendly  spirit. 
His  fraternal  attitude  and  unfailing  good-temper  diverted  her. 
His  rather  doubtful  reputation  piqued  her  curiosity.  She  accepted 
the  general  verdict,  declaring  him  to  be  good-for-nothing,  while 
she  enjoyed  the  conviction  that,  rake  or  no  rake,  he  was  incapable 
of  causing  her  the  smallest  annoyance,  or  being  guilty — as  far  as 
she  herself  was  concerned — of  the  smallest  indiscretion. 

"  You  know,  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  remarked,  as  he  established 
himself  comfortably,  not  to  say  cosily,  on  a  sofa  beside  her, — "  over 
and  above  the  pleasure  of  a  peaceful  little  talk  with  you,  I  am 
not  altogether  sorry  to  seek  retirement.  You  see,  between  our- 
selves, I'm  not,  unfortunately,  in  exactly  good  odour  with  some 
members  of  the  family  just  now.     I  don't  think  I'm  shy  " — 

Honoria  smiled  at  him  through  the  dimness. 

"  I  don't  think  you're  shy,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  know,  when  you  come  to  consider  it  from  an 
unprejudiced  standpoint,  what  the  dickens  is  the  use  of  being 
shy  ?  It's  only  an  inverted  kind  of  conceit  at  best,  and  half  the 
time  it  makes  you  stand  in  your  own  light." 

"Clearly  it's  a  mistake  every  way,"  the  young  lady  asserted. 
"And,  happily,  it's  one  of  which  I  can  entirely  acquit  you  of 
being  guilty." 

Lord  Shotover  threw  back  his  head  and  looked  sideways  at 
his  companion. — Wonderfully  graceful  woman  she  was  certainly  ! 
Gave  you  the  feeling  she'd  all  the  time  there  was  or  ever  would 
be.     Delightful  thing  to  see  a  woman  who  was  never  in  a  hurry. 

"  No,  honestly  I  don't  believe  I'm  weak  in  the  way  of  shy- 
ness," he  continued.  "  If  I  had  been,  I  shouldn't  be  here  to- 
night. My  sister  Louisa  didn't  press  me  to  come.  Strange  as  it 
may  appear  to  you,  Miss  St.  Quentin,  I  give  you  my  word  she 
didn't.  Nor  has  she  regarded  me  with  an  exactly  favourable  eye 
since  my  arrival.  I  am  not  abashed,  not  a  bit.  But  I  can't 
disguise  from  myself  that  again  I  have  gone,  and  been,  and  jolly 
well  put  my  foot  in  it." 

He  whistled  very  softly  under  his  breath. — "  Oh  !  I  have,  I 
promise  you,  even  on  the  most  modest  computation,  very  ex- 
tensively and  comprehensively  put  my  foot  in  it ! " 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP 


00 


"How?"  inquired  Honoria. 

Lord  Shotover's  confidences  invariably  amused  her,  and  just 
now  she  welcomed  amusement.  For,  crossing  her  hostess' 
boudoir,  she  had  momentarily  caught  sight  of  that  which  changed 
the  speculative  sarcasm  of  her  meditations  to  something  ap- 
proaching pain — namely  a  pretty,  wide-eyed,  childish  face  rising 
from  out  a  cloud  of  white  tulle,  white  roses,  and  diamonds,  the 
expression  of  which  had  seemed  to  her  distressingly  remote  from 
all  the  surrounding  gaiety  and  splendour.  Actualities  and 
appearances  here  were  surely  radically  at  variance  ?  And,  now, 
she  smilingly  turned  on  her  elbow  and  made  brief  inquiry  of  her 
companion,  promising  herself  good  measure  of  superficial  en- 
tertainment which  should  serve  to  banish  that  pathetic  counten- 
ance, and  allay  her  suspicion  of  a  sorrowful  happening  which  she 
was  powerless  alike  to  hinder  or  to  help. 

Lord  Shotover  pushed  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets, 
leaned  far  back  on  the  sofa,  turning  his  head  so  that  he  could 
look  at  her  comfortably  without  exertion  and  chuckUng,  a  little, 
as  he  spoke. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  said,  "I  brought  Decies.  No,  you're 
right,  I'm  not  shy,  for  to  do  that  was  a  bit  of  the  most  barefaced 
cheek.  My  sister  Louisa  hadn't  asked  him.  Of  course  she 
hadn't.  At  bottom  she's  awfully  afraid  he  may  still  upset  the 
apple-cart.  But  I  told  her  I  knew,  of  course,  she  had  intended 
to  ask  him,  and  that  the  letter  must  have  got  lost  somehow  in  the 
post,  and  that  I  knew  how  glad  she'd  be  to  have  me  rectify  the 
little  mistake.  My  manner  was  not  jaunty.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  or 
defiant — not  a  bit  of  it.  It  was  frank,  manly,  I  should  call  it 
manly  and  pleasing.  But  Louisa  didn't  seem  to  see  it  that  way 
somehow.  She  withered  me,  she  scorched  me,  reduced  me  to  a 
cinder,  though  she  never  uttered  one  blessed  syllable.  The 
hottest  corner  of  the  infernal  regions  resided  in  my  sister's  eye  at 
that  moment,  and  I  resided  in  that  hottest  corner,  I  tell  you.  Of 
course  I  knew  I  risked  losing  the  last  rag  of  her  regard  when  I 
brought  Decies.  But  you  see,  poor  chap,  it  is  awfully  rough 
on  him.  He  was  making  the  running  all  through  the  winter.  I 
could  not  help  feeling  for  him,  so  I  chucked  discretion  " — 

"  For  the  first  and  only  time  in  your  life,"  put  in  Honoria 
gently.  "And  pray  who  and  what  is  this  disturber  of  domestic 
peace,  Decies  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  know  the  whole  affair  grows  out  of  this  engagement 
of  my  little  sister  Connie's.  By  the  way,  though,  the  Calmadys 
are  great  friends  of  yours,  aren't  they.  Miss  St.  Ouentin?" 

The  young  man  regarded  her  anxiously,  fearful  lest  he  should 


332  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

have  endangered  the  agreeable  intimacy  of  their  present  relation 
by  the  introduction  of  an  unpalatable  subject  of  conversation. 
Even  in  this  semi-obscurity  he  perceived  that  her  fine  smile  had 
vanished,  while  the  lines  of  her  sensitive  face  took  on  a  certain 
rigidity  and  effect  of  sternness.  Lord  Shotover  regretted  that. 
For  some  reason,  he  knew  not  what,  she  was  displeased.  He, 
like  an  ass,  evidently  had  blundered. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  began,  "  perhaps — perhaps" — 

"  Perhaps  it  is  very  impertinent  for  a  mere  looker-on  like  my- 
self to  have  any  views  at  all  about  this  marriage,"  Honoria  put  in 
quickly. 

"  Bless  you,  no,  it's  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  see  how 
anybody  can  very  well  be  off  having  views  about  it— that's  just 
the  nuisance.  The  whole  thing  shouts,  confound  it.  So  you 
might  just  as  well  let  me  hear  your  views.  Miss  St.  Quentin. 
I  should  be  awfully  interested.  They  might  help  to  straighten 
my  own  out  a  bit." 

Honoria  paused  a  moment,  doubting  how  much  of  her 
thought  it  would  be  justifiable  to  confide  to  her  companion.  A 
certain  vein  of  knight-errantry  in  her  character  inclined  her  to  set 
lance  in  rest  and  ride  forth,  rather  recklessly,  to  redress  human 
wrongs.  But  in  redressing  one  wrong  it  too  often  happens  that 
another  wrong — or  something  perilously  approaching  one — must 
be  inflicted.  To  save  _  pain  in  one  direction  is,  unhappily,  to 
inflict  pain  in  the  opposite  one.  Honoria  was  aware  how  warmly 
Lady  Calmady  desired  this  marriage.  She  loved  Lady  Calmady. 
Therefore  her  loyalty  was  engaged,  and  yet — 

"I  am  no  match-maker,"  she  said  at  last,  "and  so  probably 
my  view  is  unnecessarily  pessimistic.  But  I  happened  to  see 
Lady  Constance  just  now,  and  I  cannot  pretend  that  she  struck 
me  as  looking  conspicuously  happy." 

Lord  Shotover  flattened  his  shoulders  against  the  back  of  the 
sofa,  expanding  his  chest  and  thrusting  his  hands  still  farther  into 
his  pockets  with  a  movement  at  once  of  anxiety  and  satisfaction. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  is,"  he  asserted.  "  Upon  my  word 
you're  right.  I  don't  believe  she  is.  I  doubted  it  from  the  first, 
and  now  I'm  pretty  certain.  Of  course  I  know  I'm  a  bad  lot, 
Miss  St.  Quentin.  I've  been  very  little  but  a  confounded 
nuisance  to  my  people  ever  since  I  was  born.  They're  all  ten 
thousand  times  better  than  I  am,  and  they're  doing  what  they 
honestly  think  right.  All  the  same  I  believe  they're  making  a 
ghastly  mistake.  They're  selling  the  poor,  little  girl  against  her 
will,  that's  about  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

He  bowed  himself  together,  looking  at  his  companion  from 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  333 

under  his  eyebrows,  and  speaking  with  more  seriousness  than  she 
had  ever  heard  him  yet  speak. 

"I  tell  you  it  makes  me  a  little  sick  sometimes  to  see  what 
excellent,  well-meaning  people  will  do  with  girls  in  respect  of 
marriage.  Oh,  good  Lord  !  it  just  does  !  But  then  a  high  moral 
tone  doesn't  come  quite  gracefully  from  me.  I  know  that.  I'm 
jolly  well  out  of  it.  It's  not  for  me  to  preach.  And  so  I  thought 
for  once  I'd  act — defy  authority,  risk  landing  myself  in  a  worse 
mess  than  ever,  and  give  Decies  his  chance.  And  I  tell  you  he 
really  is  a  charming  chap,  a  gentleman,  you  know,  and  a  nice, 
clean-minded,  decent  fellow — -not  like  me,  not  a  bit.  He's  awfully 
hard  hit  too,  and  would  be  as  steady  as  old  time  for  poor,  little 
Con's  sake  if" — 

"  Ah  !  now  I  begin  to  comprehend,"  Honoria  said. 

"  Yes,  don't  you  see,  it's  a  perfectly  genuine,  for-ever-and-ever- 
amen  sort  of  business." 

Lord  Shotover  leaned  back  once  more,  and  turned  a  wonder- 
fully pleasant,  if  not  pre-eminently  responsible,  countenance  upon 
his  companion. 

"  I  never  went  in  for  that  kind  of  racket  myself.  Miss  St. 
Quentin,"  he  continued.  "  Not  being  conspicuously  faithful,  I 
should  only  have  made  Vi  fiasco  of  it.  But  I  give  you  my  word  it 
touches  me  all  the  same  when  I  do  run  across  it.  I  think  it's 
awfully  lucky  for  a  man  to  be  made  that  way.  And  Decies  is. 
So  there  seemed  no  help  for  it.  I  had  to  chuck  discretion,  as  I 
told  you,  and  give  him  his  chance." 

He  paused,  and  then  asked  with  a  somewhat  humorous  air 
of  self-depreciation: — "What  do  you  think  now,  have  I  done 
more  harm  than  good,  made  confusion  worse  confounded,  and 
played  the  fool  generally  ?  " 

But  again  Honoria  vouchsafed  him  no  immediate  reply.  The 
meditative  mood  still  held  her,  and  the  present  conversation  offered 
much  food  for  meditation.  Her  companion's  confessicMi  of  faith  in 
true  love,  if  you  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  tliat  way,  had 
startled  her.  That  the  speaker  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being 
something  of  a  profligate  lent  singular  point  to  tliat  confession. 
She  had  not  expected  it  from  Lord  Shotover,  of  all  men.  And,  as 
coming  from  him,  the  sentiment  was  in  a  high  degree  arresting 
and  interesting.  Her  own  ideals,  so  far,  had  a  decidedly  anti- 
matrimonial  tendency ;  while  being  in  love  ajjpearcd  to  her 
a  much  overrated,  if  not  actively  objectionable,  condition. 
Personally  she  hoped  to  escape  all  experience  of  it.  Then  her 
thought  travelled  back  to  Lady  Calmady — the  charm  of  her 
personality,    her   sorrows,    her    splendid    self-devotion,    and   to 


334  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  object  of  that  devotion — namely  Richard  Calmady,  a  being  of 
strange  contrasts,  at  once  maimed  and  beautiful,  a  being  from  whom 
she — Honoria — shrank  in  instinctive  repulsion  while  unwillingly 
acknowledging  that  he  exercised  a  permanent  and  intimate  fascina- 
tion over  her  imagination.  She  dwelt,  in  quick  pity,  too,  upon 
the  frightened,  wide-eyed,  childish  face  recently  seen  rising  from 
out  its  diaphanous  cloud  of  tulle,  the  prettiness  of  it  heightened 
by  fair  wealth  of  summer  roses  and  flash  of  costly  diamonds,  and 
upon  Mr.  Decies,  the  whole-hearted,  young,  soldier  lover,  whose 
existence  threatened  such  dangerous  complications  in  respect 
of  the  rest  of  this  strangely  assorted  company.  Finally  her 
meditative  survey  returned  to  its  point  of  departure.  In  thought 
she  surveyed  her  present  companion — his  undeniable  excellence 
of  sentiment  and  clear-seeing,  his  admittedly  defective  conduct 
in  matters  ethical  and  financial.  Never  before  had  she  been  at 
such  close  quarters  with  living  and  immediate  human  drama,  and, 
notwithstanding  her  detachment,  her  lofty  indifference  and  high- 
spirited  theories,  she  found  it  profoundly  agitating.  She  was 
sensible  of  being  in  collision  with  unknown  and  incalculable 
forces.  Instinctively  she  rose  from  her  place  on  the  sofa,  and, 
moving  to  the  open  window,  looked  out  into  the  night. 

Below,  the  Park,  now  silent  and  deserted,  slept  peacefully, 
as  any  expanse  of  remote  country  pasture  and  woodland,  in  the 
mildly  radiant  moonlight.  Here  and  there  were  blottings  of  dark 
shadow  cast  by  the  clumps  or  avenues  of  trees.  Here  and  there 
the  timid,  yellow  flame  of  gas  lamps  struggled  to  assert  itself 
against  the  all-embracing  silver  brightness.  Here  and  there 
windows  glowed  warm,  set  in  the  pale,  glistering  facades  of  the 
adjacent  houses.  A  cool,  light  wind,  hailing  from  the  direction 
of  the  unseen  Serpentine,  stirred  the  hanging  clusters  of  the  pink 
geraniums  that  fell  over  the  curved  lip  of  the  stone  vases,  stand- 
ing along  the  broad  coping  of  the  balcony,  and  gently  caressed 
the  girl's  bare  arms  and  shoulders. 

Seen  under  these  unaccustomed  conditions  familiar  objects 
assumed  a  fantastic  aspect.  For  the  night  is  a  mighty  magician, 
with  power  to  render  even  the  weighty  brick  and  stone,  even 
the  hard,  uncompromising  outlines,  of  a  monster,  modern  city, 
delicately  elusive,  mockingly  tentative  and  unsubstantial.  Mean- 
while, within,  from  all  along  the  vista  of  crowded  and  brilliantly 
illuminated  rooms,  came  the  subdued,  yet  confused  and  insistent, 
sound  of  musical  instruments,  of  many  voices,  many  footsteps, 
the  hush  of  women's  trailing  garments,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
unceasing  conversation.  And  to  Honoria,  standing  in  this  quiet, 
dimly-seen  place,  the  sense  of  that  moonlit  world  without,  and 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  335 

this  gas  and  candle-lit  world  within,  increased  the  nameless 
agitation  which  infected  her.  A  haunting  persuasion  of  the 
phantasmagoric  character  of  all  sounds  that  saluted  her  ears,  all 
sights  that  met  her  eyes,  possessed  her.  A  vast  uncertainty 
surrounded  and  pressed  in  on  her ;  while  those  questionings  of 
appearances  and  actualities,  of  truth  and  falsehood,  right  and 
wrong,  justice  and  injustice,  with  which  she  had  played  idly 
earlier  in  the  evening,  took  on  new  and  almost  terrible  propor- 
tions, causing  her  intelligence,  nay,  her  heart  itself,  to  reach  out, 
as  never  before,  in  search  of  some  sure  rock  and  house  of 
defence  against  the  disintegrating  apprehension  of  universal 
instability  and  illusion. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  all  very  difficult,  difficult  to  the  point  of  alarm  !  "  she 
exclaimed  suddenly,  turning  to  Lord  Shotover  and  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face,  with  an  unself-consciousness  and  desire  of 
support  so  transparent  that  that  gentleman  found  himself  at  once 
delighted  and  slightly  abashed. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  but  Ludovic  is  a  lucky  devil ! "  he  said  to  him- 
self.— "  What's — what's  so  beastly  difficult.  Miss  St.  Quentin  ?  "  he 
asked  aloud.  And  the  sound  of  his  cheery  voice  recalled  Honoria 
to  the  normal  aspects  of  existence  with  almost  humorous  velocity. 
She  smiled  upon  him. 

"  I  really  believe  I  don't  quite  know,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps 
that  the  two  people,  of  whom  we  were  speaking,  really  care  for 
each  other,  and  that  this  engagement  has  come  between  them,  and 
that  you  have  chucked  discretion  and  given  him  his  chance. 
Tell  me,  what  sort  of  man  is  he — strong  enough  to  make  the 
most  of  his  chance  when  he's  got  it  ?  " 

But  at  that  moment  Lord  Shotover  stepped  forward,  adroitly 
planting  himself  right  in  front  of  her  and  thus  screening  her  from 
observation. 

"  By  George  !  "  he  said  under  his  breath,  in  tones  of  mingled 
amusement  and  consternation,  "  he's  making  the  most  of  his 
chance  now.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  that  most  uncommonly 
comf)rehensively,  unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken." 

Her  companion's  tall  person  and  the  folds  of  a  heavy  curtain, 
while  screening  Honoria  from  observation,  also,  in  great  measure, 
obscured  her  view  of  the  room.  Yet  not  so  completely  but 
that  she  saw  two  figures  cross  it,  one  black,  one  white,  those 
of  a  man  and  a  girl.  They  were  both  speaking,  the  man 
apparently  pleading,  the  girl  protesting  and  moving  hurriedly 
the  while,  as  though  in  actual  flight.  .She  must  have  been 
moving  blindly,  at  random,  for  she  stumbled  against  the  out- 
standing, gilded  leg  of  a  consol  table,  set  against  the  farther  wall. 


33(^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

causing  the  ornaments  on  it  to  rattle.  And  so  doing,  she  gave  a 
plaintive  exclamation  of  alarm,  perhaps  even  of  physical  pain. 
Hearing  which,  that  nameless  agitation,  that  sense  of  collision 
with  unknown  and  incalculable  forces,  seized  hold  on  Honoria 
again,  while  Lord  Shotover's  features  contracted  and  he  turned 
his  head  sharply. 

"  By  George  !  "  he  repeated  under  his  breath. 

But  the  girl  recovered  herself,  and,  followed  by  her  com- 
panion,— he  still  pleading,  she  still  protesting, — passed  by  the 
farther  window  on  to  the  balcony  and  out  of  sight.  There  followed 
a  period  of  embarrassed  silence  on  the  part  of  the  usually  voluble 
Shotover,  while  his  pleasant  countenance  expressed  a  certain 
half-humorous  concern. 

"  Really,  I'm  aw.'"ully  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I'd  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  landing  you  in  the  thick  of  the  brown  like  this." 

"Or  yourself  either,"  she  replied,  smiling;  though,  with  that 
sense  of  nameless  agitation  still  upon  her,  her  heart  beat  rather 
quick. 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  Between  ourselves,  moral  courage  isn't 
my  strong  point.  There's  nothing  I  funk  like  a  row.  I  say, 
what  shall  we  do?  Don't  you  think  we'd  better  quietly  clear 
out?" 

But,  just  then,  a  sound  caught  Honoria's  ear  before  which  all 
vague  questions  of  ultimate  truth  and  falsehood,  right  and  wrong 
fled  away.  Whatever  might  savour  of  illusion,  here  was  some- 
thing real  and  actual,  something  pitiful,  moreover,  arousing 
the  spirit  of  knight-errantry  in  her,  pushing  her  to  lay  lance  in 
rest  and  go  forth,  reckless  of  conventionalities,  reckless  even  of 
considerations  of  justice,  to  the  succour  of  oppressed  womanhood. 
What  words  the  man  on  the  balcony,  without,  was  saying,  she 
could  not  distinguish  —  whether  cruel  or  kind ;  but  that  the 
young  girl  was  weeping,  with  the  abandonment  of  long-resisted 
tears,  she  could  not  doubt. 

"  No,  no,  listen.  Lord  Shotover,"  she  exclaimed  authoritatively. 
"Don't  you  hear?  She  is  crying  as  if  her  poor  heart  would 
break.  You  must  stay.  If  I  understand  you  rightly  your  sister 
has  only  got  you  to  depend  on.  Whatever  happens  you  must 
stand  by  her  and  see  her  through." 

"  Oh  !  but,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin  " —  The  young  man's 
aspect  was  entertaining.  He  looked  at  the  floor,  he  looked  at 
Honoria,  he  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck  with  one  hand  as 
though  there  might  be  placed  the  seat  of  fortitude.  "  You're 
inviting  me  to  put  my  head  into  the  liveliest  hornet's  nest. 
What  the  deuce — excuse  me — am  I  to  say  to  her  and  all  the 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  337 

rest  of  them  ?  Decies,  even,  mayn't  quite  understand  my 
interference  and  may  resent  it.  I  think  it  is  very  much  safer, 
all  round,  to  let  them — him  and  her — thrash  it  out  between 
them,  don't  you  know.  I  say  though,  what  a  beastly  thing  it  is 
to  hear  a  woman  cry  !  I  wish  to  goodness  we'd  never  come  into 
this  confounded  place  and  let  ourselves  in  for  it." 

As  he  spoke,  Lord  Shotover  turned  towards  the  door, 
meditating  escape  in  the  direction  of  that  brilliant  vista  of 
crowded  rooms.  But  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  her  enthusiasm  once 
aroused,  became  inexorable.  With  her  long,  swinging  stride  she 
outdistanced  his  hesitating  steps,  and  stood,  in  the  doorway,  her 
arms  extended — as  to  stop  a  runaway  horse — her  clear  eyes  aglow 
as  though  a  lamp  burned  behind  them,  her  pale,  delicately  cut 
face  eloquent  of  very  militant  charity.  A  spice  of  contempt, 
moreover,  for  his  display  of  pusillanimity  was  quite  perceptible 
to  Shotover  in  the  expression  of  this  charming,  modern  angel, 
clad  in  a  ball-dress,  bearing  a  fan  instead  of  the  traditional 
ficry-sword,  who,  so  determinedly,  barred  the  entrance  of  that 
comfortably  conventional,  worldly  paradise  to  which  he,  just  now, 
so  warmly  desired  to  regain  admittance. 

_  "No,  no,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  vibration  in  her  quiet 
voice,  "you  are  not  to  go!  You  are  not  to  desert  her.  It 
would  be  unworthy,  Lord  Shotover.  You  brought  Mr.  Decies 
here  and  so  you  are  mainly  responsible  for  the  present  situation. 
And  think,  just  think  what  it  means.  All  the  course  of  her  life 
will  be  affected  by  that  which  takes  place  in  the  next  half-hour. 
You  would  never  cease  to  reproach  yourself  if  things  went 
wrong." 

"  Shouldn't  I  ?  "  the  young  man  said  dubiously. 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  Honoria  asserted,  "having  it  in 
your  power  to  help,  and  then  shirking  the  responsibility !  I 
won't  believe  that  of  you.  You  are  better  than  that.  For  think 
how  young  she  is,  and  pretty  and  dependent.  She  may  be 
driven  to  do  some  fatally,  foolish  thing  if  she's  left  unsupported. 
You  must  at  least  know  what  is  going  on.  You  are  bound  to  do 
so.  Moreover,  as  a  mere  matter  of  courtesy,  you  can't  desert 
me  and  I  intend  to  stay." 

"  Do  you,  though  ?  "  faltered  Lord  Shotover,  in  tones  curiously 
r(-sembling  his  father's. 

Honoria  drew  herself  up  proudly,  almost  scornfully. 

"Yes,  I  shall  stay,"  she  continued.  "T  am  no  match-maker. 
I  have  no  particular  faith  in  or  admiration  for  marriage" 

"  Haven't    you,    though  ? "    said    Lord    Shotover.       He    was 
slightly  surprised,  slightly  amused,  but  to  his  credit  be  it  stated 
22 


338  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

that  he  put  no  equivocal  construction  upon  the  young  lady's 
frank  avowal.  He  felt  a  little  sorry  for  Ludovic,  that  was  all, 
fearing  the  latter's  good  fortune  was  less  fully  established  than 
he  had  supposed. 

"No,  1  don't  believe  very  much  in  marriage  —  modern, 
upper-class  marriage,"  she  repeated.  "And,  just  precisely  on 
that  account,  it  seems  to  me  all  the  more  degrading  and  shame- 
ful that  a  girl  should  risk  marrying  the  wrong  man.  People  talk 
about  a  broken  engagement  as  though  it  was  a  disgrace.  I  can't 
see  that.  An  unwilling,  a — a — loveless  marriage  is  the  disgrace. 
And  so  at  the  very  church  door  1  would  urge  and  encourage  a 
woman  to  turn  back,  if  she  doubted,  and  have  done  with  the 
whole  thing." 

"Upon  my  word  !"  murmured  Lord  Shotover. — The  infinite 
variety  of  the  feminine  outlook,  the  unqualified  audacity  of  feminine 
action,  struck  him  as  bewildering.  Talk  of  women's  want  of 
logic !  It  was  their  relentless  application  of  logic — as  they 
apprehended  it — -which  staggered  him. 

Honoria  had  come  close  to  him.  In  her  excitement  she 
laid  her  fan  on  his  arm. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  listen  how  Lady  Constance  is  crying. 
Come — you  must  know  what  is  happening.  You  must  comfort 
her." 

The  young  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  with  an  air 
of  good-humoured  and  despairing  resignation. 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  "only  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss 
St.  Quentin,  you've  got  to  come  too.     I  refuse  to  be  deserted." 

"  I  have  not  the  smallest  intention  of  deserting  you,"  Honoria 
said.  "  Even  yet  discretion,  though  so  lately  chucked,  might 
return  to  you.  And  then  you  might  cut  and  run,  don't  you 
know." 


CHAPTER  VII 

RECORDING  THE    ASTONISHIXG    VALOUR    DISPLAYED    BY  A  CERTAIN 
SMALL    MOUSE    IN    A    CORNER 

AS  Honoria  St.  Quentin  and  the  reluctant  Shotover  stepped, 
side  by  side,  from  the  warmth  and  dimness  obtaining  in 
the  anteroom,  into  the  pleasant  coolness  of  the  moonlit  balcony. 
Lady  Constance  Quayle,  altogether  forgetful  of  her  usual  careful 
civility  and  pretty  correctness  of  demeanour,  uttered  an  inar- 
ticulate cry — a  cry,  indeed,  hardly  human  in  its  abandon   and 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  339 

unreasoning  anguish,  resembling  rather  the  shriek  of  the  doubling 
hare  as  the  pursuing  greyhound  nips  it  across  the  loins.  Regard- 
less of  all  her  dainty  finery  of  tulle,  and  roses,  and  flashing 
diamonds,  she  flung  herself  forward,  face  downwards,  across  the 
coping  of  the  balustrade,  her  bare  arms  outstretched,  her  hands 
clasped  above  her  head.  Mr.  Decies,  blue-eyed,  black-haired, 
smooth  of  skin,  looking  noticeably  long  and  lithe  in  his  close- 
fitting,  dress  clothes,  made  a  rapid  movement  as  though  to  lay 
hold  on  her  and  bear  her  bodily  away.  Then,  recognising  the 
futility  of  any  such  attempt,  he  turned  upon  the  intruders,  his 
high-spirited,  Celtic  face  drawn  with  emotion,  his  attitude  rather 
dangerouslv  warlike. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  demanded  hotly. 

"My  dear  good  fellow,"  Lord  Shotover  began,  with  the  most 
assuaging  air  of  apology,  "  I  assure  you  the  very  last  thing  I — 
we — I  mean  I — want  is  to  be  a  nuisance.  Only  Miss  St.  Quentin 
thought — in  fact,  Decies,  don't  you  see — dash  it  all,  you  know, 
there  seemed  to  be  some  sort  of  worry  going  on  out  here  and 
so"— 

But  Honoria  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  elaborate 
explanations,  for  that  cry  and  the  unrestraint  of  the  girl's 
attitude  not  only  roused,  but  shocked  her.  It  was  not  fitting 
that  any  man,  however  kindly  or  even  devoted,  should  behold 
this  well-bred,  modest  and  gentle,  young  maiden  in  her  present 
extremity.  So  she  swept  past  Mr.  Decies  and  bent  over  Lady 
Constance  Quayle,  raised  her,  strove  to  soothe  her  agitation, 
speaking  in  tones  of  somewhat  indignant  tenderness. 

But,  though  deriving  a  measure  of  comfort  from  the  steady 
arm  about  her  waist,  from  the  strong,  protective  presence,  from 
the  rather  stem  beauty  of  the  face  looking  down  into  hers,  Lady 
Constance  could  not  master  her  agitation.  The  train  had  left 
the  metals,  so  to  speak,  and  the  result  was  confusion  dire.  A 
great  shame  held  her,  a  dislocation  of  mind.  She  suffered  that 
loneliness  of  soul  which  forms  so  integral  a  part  of  the  misery  of 
all  apparently  irretrievable  disaster,  whether  moral  or  physical, 
and  places  the  victim  of  it,  in  imagination  at  all  events,  rather 
terribly  beyond  the  pale. 

"Oh  !"  she  sobbed,  "you  ouglit  not  to  be  so  kind  to  me.  I 
am  very  wicked.  I  never  sui)posed  I  could  be  so  wicked. 
What  shall  I  do?  I  am  so  frightened  at  myself  and  at  every- 
thing. I  did  not  recognise  you.  I  didn't  see  it  was  only 
Shotover." 

"Well,  but  nr)w  you  do  se(^  my  dear  Con,  it's  only  me," 
that  gentleman  remarked,  with  a  cheerful  disregard  of  grammar. 


340  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  And  so  you  mustn't  upset  yourself  any  more.  It's  awfully  bad 
for  you,  and  uncomfortable  for  everybody  else,  don't  you  know. 
You  must  try  to  pull  yourself  together  a  bit  and  we'll  help  you 
— of  course,  I'll  help  you.  We'll  all  help  you,  of  course  we  will, 
and  pull  you  through  somehow." 

But  the  girl  only  lamented  herself  the  more  piteously. 

"  Oh  no,  Shotover,  you  must  not  be  so  kind  to  me  !  You 
couldn't,  if  you  knew  how  wicked  I  have  been." 

"  Couldn't  I  ?  "  Lord  Shotover  remarked,  not  without  a  touch 
of  humorous  pathos.     "  Poor  little  Con  ! " 

"Only,  only  please  do  not  tell  Louisa.  It  would  be  too 
dreadful  if  she  knew — she,  and  Alicia,  and,,  the  others.  Don't 
tell  her,  and  I  will  be  good.  I  will  be  quite  good,  indeed  I 
will." 

"Bless  me,  my  dear  child,  I  won't  tell  anybody  anything. 
To  begin  with  I  don't  know  anything  to  tell." 

The  girl's  voice  had  sunk  away  into  a  sob.  She  shuddered, 
letting  her  pretty,  brown  head  fall  back  against  Honoria  St. 
Quentin's  bare  shoulder, — while  the  moonlight  glinted  on  her 
jewels  and  the  night  wind  swayed  the  hanging  clusters  of  the 
pink  geraniums.  Along  with  the  warmth  and  scent  of  flowers, 
streaming  outward  through  the  open  windows,  came  a  confused 
sound  of  many  voices,  of  discreet  laughter,  mingled  with  the 
wailing  sweetness  of  violins.  Then  the  pleading,  broken,  childish 
voice  took  up  its  tale  again  : — 

"  I  will  be  good.  I  know  I  have  promised,  and  I  have  let 
him  give  me  a  number  of  beautiful  things.  He  has  been  very 
kind  to  me,  because  he  is  clever,  and  of  course  I  am  stupid. 
But  he  has  never  been  impatient  with  me.  And  I  am  not 
ungrateful,  indeed,  Shotover,  I  am  not.  It  was  only  for  a 
minute  I  was  wicked  enough  to  think  of  doing  it.  But  Mr. 
Decies  told  me  he — asked  me — and — and  we  were  so  happy  at 
Whitney  in  the  winter.  And  it  seemed  too  hard  to  give  it  all  up, 
as  he  said  it  was  true.  But  I  will  be  good,  indeed  I  will.  Really 
it  was  only  for  a  minute  I  thought  of  it.  I  know  I  have  promised. 
Indeed,  I  will  make  no  fuss.  I  will  be  good.  I  will  marry 
Richard  Calmady." 

"  But  this  is  simply  intolerable  !  "  Honoria  said  in  a  low  voice. 

She  held  herself  tall  and  straight,  looking  gallant  yet  pure, 
austere  even,  as  some  pictured  Jeanne  d'Arc,  a  great  singleness 
of  purpose,  a  high  courage  of  protest,  an  effect  at  once  of  fearless 
challenge  and  of  command  in  her  bearing. — "  Is  it  not  a  scandal," 
she  went  on,  "that  in  a  civilised  country,  at  this  time  of  day,  a 
woman  should  be  allowed,  actually  forced,  to  suffer  so  much  ? 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  341 

You  must  not  permit  this  martyrdom  to  be  completed — you 
can't ! " 

As  she  spoke  Decies  watched  her  keenly,  ^^'ho  this  stately, 
young  lady — so  remarkably  unlike  the  majority  of  Lord  Shotover's 
intimate,  feminine  acquaintance — might  be,  he  did  not  know.  But 
he  discerned  in  her  an  ally  and  a  powerful  one. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  impulsively,  "  you  are  right.  It  is  a  martyrdom 
and  a  scandalous  one.  It's  worse  than  murder,  it's  sacrilege. 
It's  not  like  any  ordinary  marriage.  I  don't  want  to  be  brutal, 
but  it  isn't.  There's  something  repulsive  in  it,  something 
unnatural." 

The  young  man  looked  at  Honoria,  and  read  in  her  expression 
a  certain  agreement  and  encouragement. 

"You  know  it,  Shotover  —  you  know  it  just  as  well  as  I 
do.  And  that  justified  me  in  attempting  what  I  suppose  I  would 
not  otherwise  have  felt  it  honourable  to  attempt. — Look  here, 
Shotover,  I  will  tell  you  what  has  just  happened.  I  would  have 
had  to  tell  you  to-morrow,  in  any  case,  if  we  had  carried  the 
plan  out.  But  I  suppose  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  tell  you 
now,  since  you've  come." 

He  ranged  himself  in  line  with  Miss  St.  Quentin,  his  back 
against  one  of  the  big,  stone  vases.  He  struggled  honestly  to 
keep  both  temper  and  emotion  under  control,  but  a  rather 
volcanic  energy  was  perceptible  in  him. 

"  I  love  Lady  Constance,"  he  said.  "  I  have  told  her  so, 
and — and  she  cares  for  me.  I  am  not  a  Croesus  like  Calmady. 
But  I  am  not  a  pauper.  I  have  enough  to  keep  a  wife  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  her  position  and  my  own.  When  my  uncle, 
Ulick  Decies,  dies — which  I  hope  he'll  not  hurry  to  do,  since  I 
am  very  fond  of  him — there'll  be  the  Somersetshire  property  in 
addition  to  my  own  dear,  old  place  in  County  Cork.  And  your 
sister  simply  hates  this  marriage  " — 

"  Lord  bless  me,  my  dear  fellow,  so  do  I  !  "  Lord  Shotover  put 
in  with  evident  sincerity. 

"  And  so,  when  at  last  I  had  spoken  freely,  I  asked  her  to  " — 

But  the  young  girl  cowered  down,  hiding  her  face  in  Honoria 
St.  Qucntin's  bosom. 

"Oh!  don't  .say  it  again — don't  say  it,"  she  implored.  "It 
was  wicked  of  me  to  listen  to  you  even  for  a  minute.  I  ought  to 
have  stopped  you  at  once  and  sent  you  away.  It  was  very 
wrong  of  me  to  listen,  and  talk  to  you,  and  tell  you  all  that  I  did. 
But  everything  is  so  strange,  and  I  have  been  so  miserable.  I 
never  supposed  anyljody  could  ever  be  so  miserable.  And 
I  knew  it  was  ungrateful  of  me,  and  so  I  dared  not  tell  anybody. 


342  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

I  would  have  told  papa,  but  Louisa  never  let  me  be  alone  with 
him.  She  said  jiapa  indulged  me,  and  made  me  selfish  and 
fanciful,  and  so  I  have  never  seen  him  for  more  than  a  little 
while.  And  I  have  been  so  frightened." — She  raised  her  head, 
gazing  wide-eyed  first  at  Miss  St.  Quentin  and  then  at  her  brother. 
"  I  have  thought  such  dreadful  things.  I  must  be  very  bad.  I 
wanted  to  run  away.     I  wanted  to  die  " — 

"There,  you  hear,  you  hear,"  Decies  cried  hoarsely,  spreading 
abroad  his  hands,  in  sudden  violence  of  appeal  to  Honoria. 
"  For  God's  sake  help  us  !  I  am  not  aware  whether  you  are  a 
relation,  or  a  friend,  or  what.  But  I  am  convinced  you  can  help, 
if  only  you  choose  to  do  so.  And  I  tell  you  she  is  just  killing 
herself  over  this  accursed  marriage.  Someone's  got  at  her  and 
talked  her  into  some  wild  notion  of  doing  her  duty,  and  marrying 
money  for  the  sake  of  her  family"- — - 

"  Oh,  I  say,  damn  it  all ! "  Lord  Shotover  exclaimed,  smitten 
with  genuine  remorse. 

"  And  so  she  believes  she's  committing  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
and  I  don't  know  what  besides,  because  she  rebels  against  this 
marriage  and  is  unhappy.  Tell  her  it's  absurd,  it's  horrible,  that 
she  should  do  what  she  loathes  and  detests.  Tell  her  this  talk 
about  duty  is  a  blind,  and  a  fiction.  Tell  her  she  isn't  wicked. 
Why,  God  in  heaven,  if  we  were  none  of  us  more  wicked  than 
she  is,  this  poor  old  world  would  be  so  clean  a  place  that  the 
holy  angels  might  walk  barefoot  along  the  Piccadilly  pavement 
there,  outside,  without  risking  to  soil  so  much  as  the  hem  of  their 
garments  !  Make  her  understand  that  the  only  sin  for  her  is 
to  do  violence  to  her  nature  by  marrying  a  man  she's  afraid  of, 
and  for  whom  she  does  not  care.  I  don't  want  to  play  a  low 
game  on  Sir  Richard  Calmady  and  steal  that  which  belongs  to 
him.  But  she  doesn't  belong  to  him — she  is  mine,  just  my  own. 
I  knew  that  from  the  first  day  I  came  to  Whitney,  and  looked 
her  in  the  face,  Shotover.  And  she  knows  it  too,  only  she's 
been  terrorised  with  all  this  devil's  talk  of  duty." 

So  far  the  words  had  poured  forth  volubly,  as  in  a  torrent. 
Now  the  speaker's  voice  dropped,  and  they  came  slowly,  defiantly, 
yet  without  hesitation. 

"And  so  I  asked  her  to  go  away  with  me,  now,  to-night,  and 
marry  me  to-morrow.  I  can  make  her  happy — oh,  no  fear 
about  that !  And  she  would  have  consented  and  gone.  We'd 
have  been  away  by  now — if  you  and  this  lady  had  not  come 
just  when  you  did,  Shotover." 

The  gentleman  addressed  whistled  very  softly. 

"  Would    you,    though  ? "    he    said,    adding   meditatively : — 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  343 

"  By  George  now,  who'd  have  thought  of  Connie  going  the  pace 
Hke  that ! " 

"Oh,  Shotover,  never  tell,  promise  me  you  will  never  tell 
them  ! "  the  poor  child  cried  again.  "  I  know  it  was  wicked, 
but  "— 

"  No,  no,  you  are  mistaken  there,"  Honoria  put  in,  holding 
her  still  closer.  "You  were  tempted  to  take  a  rather  desperate 
way  out  of  your  difificulties.  It  would  have  been  unwise,  but 
there  was  nothing  wicked  in  it.  The  wrong  thing  is — as  Mr. 
Decies  tells  you — to  marry  without  love,  and  so  make  all  your 
hfe  a  lie,  by  pretending  to  give  Richard  Calmady  that  which  you 
do  not,  and  cannot,  give  him." 

Then  the  young  soldier  broke  in  resolutely  again. 

"I  tell  you  I  asked  her  to  go  away,  and  I  ask  her  again 
now  " — 

"The  deuce  you  do!"  Lord  Shotover  exclaimed,  his  sense 
of  amusement  getting  the  better  alike  of  astonishment  and  of 
personal  regrets. 

"  Only  now  I  ask  you  to  sanction  her  going,  Shotover.  And 
I  ask  you" — he  turned  to  Miss  St.  Quentin — "to  come  with 
her.  I  am  not  even  sure  of  your  name,  but  I  know,  by  all  that 
you've  said  and  done  in  the  last  half-hour,  I  can  be  very  sure 
of  you.  And,  I  perceive,  that  if  you  come  nobody  will  dare 
to  say  anything  unpleasant — there'll  be  nothing,  indeed,  to  be 
said." 

Honoria  smiled.  The  magnificent  egoism  of  mankind  in  love 
struck  her  as  distinctly  diverting.  Yet  she  had  a  very  kindly 
feeling  towards  this  black-haired,  bright-eyed,  energetic,  young 
lover.  He  was  in  deadly  earnest — to  the  removing  even  of 
mountains.  And  he  had  need  to  be  so,  for  that  mountains 
immediately  blocked  the  road  to  his  desires  was  evident  even  to 
her  enthusiastic  mind.  She  looked  across  compellingly  at  Lord 
.Shotover.  Let  him  speak  first.  She  needed  time,  at  this  juncture, 
in  which  to  arrange  her  ideas  and  to  think. 

"  My  dear  good  fellow,"  that  gentleman  began  obediently, 
patting  Decies  on  the  shoulder,  "I'm  all  on  your  side.  I  give 
you  my  word  I  am,  and  I've  reason  to  believe  my  father  will  be 
so  too.  But  you  see,  an  elopement — specially  in  our  sort  of 
highly  respectable,  hum-drum  family — is  rather  a  strong  order. 
Upon  my  hon(-»ur  it  is,  you  know,  Decies.  And,  even  thougli 
kindly  countenanced  by  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  sanctioned  by 
me,  it  would  make  a  precious  undesirable  lot  of  talk.  It  really 
is  a  rather  irregular  fashion  of  conducting  the  business  you  see. 
And  then — advice  I  always  give  others  and  only  wish  I  could 


344  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

always  remember  to  take  myself — it's  very  much  best  to  be  off 
with  the  old  love  before  you're  on  with  the  new." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  put  in  with  quick  decision. 
"  Lord  Shotover  has  laid  his  finger  on  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
It  is  just  that.  —  Lady  Constance's  engagement  to  Richard 
Calmady  must  be  cancelled  before  her  engagement  to  you, 
Mr.  Decies,  is  announced.  For  her  to  go  away  with  you 
would  be  to  invite  criticism,  and  put  herself  hopelessly  in 
the  wrong.  She  must  not  put  herself  in  the  wrong.  Let 
me  think  !  There  must  be  some  way  by  which  we  can  avoid 
that." 

An  exultation,  hitherto  unexperienced  by  her,  inspired 
Honoria  St.  Quentin.  Her  attitude  was  slightly  unconventional. 
She  sat  on  the  stone  balustrade,  with  long-limbed,  lazy  grace, 
holding  the  girl's  hand,  forgetful  of  herself,  forgetful,  in  a 
degree,  of  appearances,  concerned  only  with  the  problem  of 
rescue  presented  to  her.  The  young  man's  honest,  whole- 
hearted devotion,  the  young  girl's  struggle  after  duty  and  her 
piteous  despair,  nay,  the  close  contact  of  that  soft,  maidenly 
body  that  she  had  so  lately  held  against  her  in  closer,  more 
intimate,  embrace  than  she  had  ever  held  anything  human  before, 
aroused  a  new  class  of  sentiment,  a  new  order  of  emotion, 
within  her.  She  realised,  for  the  first  time,  the  magnetism,  the 
penetrating  and  poetic  splendour  of  human  love.  To  witness 
the  spectacle  of  it,  to  be  thus  in  touch  with  it,  excited  her  almost 
as  sailing  a  boat  in  a  heavy  sea,  or  riding  to  hounds  in  a  stiff 
country,  excited  her.  And  it  followed  that  now,  while  she  perched 
aloft  boylike,  on  the  balustrade,  her  delicate  beauty  took  on 
a  strange  effulgence,  a  something  spiritual,  mysterious,  elusive, 
and  yet  dazzling  as  the  moonlight  which  bathed  her  charming 
figure.  Seeing  which,  it  must  be  owned  that  Lord  Shotover's 
attitude  towards  her  ceased  to  be  strictly  fraternal,  while  the 
attractions  of  ladies  more  fair  and  kind  than  wise  paled  very 
sensibly. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  in  my  day,  and  run  amuck 
with  my  chances,"  he  thought. 

But  Miss  St.  Quentin  was  altogether  innocent  of  his  observa- 
tion or  any  such  thinkings.  She  looked  up  suddenly,  her  face 
irradiated  by  an  exquisite  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  have  it,"  she  cried.     "  I  see  the  way  clear." 

*'  But  I  can't  tell  them,"  broke  in  Lady  Constance. 

Honoria's  hand  closed  down  on  hers  reassuringly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  shall  not  tell  them.  And  Lord  Shot- 
over  shall  not  tell  them.     Sir  Richard  Calmady  shall  tell  Lord 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  345 

Fallowfeild  that  he  wishes  to  be  released  from  his  engagement,  as 
he  believes  both  you  and  he  will  be  happier  apart.  Only  you 
must  be  brave,  both  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  Mr.  Decies', 
and  for  Richard  Calmady's  sake  also. — Lady  Constance,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  certain  gentle  authority,  "do  you  want  to  go 
back  to  Whitney  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  all  this  nightmare  of  an 
unhappy  marriage  done  away  with  and  gone?  Well,  then,  you 
must  come  and  see  Sir  Richard  Calmady  to-night,  and,  like  an 
honourable  woman,  tell  him  the  whole  truth.  It  must  be  done 
at  once,  or  your  courage  may  fail.  We  will  come  with  you — 
Lord  Shotover  and  I " — 

"  Good  Lord,  will  we  though  ! "  the  young  man  ejaculated, 
while  the  girl's  great,  heifer's  eyes  grew  strained  with  wonder  at 
this  astounding  announcement. 

"  I  know  it  will  be  rather  terrible,"  Honoria  continued  calmly. 
"  But  it  is  a  matter  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  against  a  lifetime, 
and  of  honour  as  against  a  lie.  So  it's  worth  while,  don't  you 
think  so,  when  your  whole  future,  and  Mr.  Decies'" — she  pressed 
the  soft  hand  again  steadily — "is  at  stake?  You  must  be  brave 
now,  and  tell  him  the  truth — just  simply  that  you  do  not  love 
him  enough — that  you  have  tried, — you  have,  I  know  you  have 
done  that, — but  that  you  have  failed,  that  you  love  someone 
else,  and  that  therefore  you  beg  him,  in  mercy,  before  it  is  too 
late,  to  set  you  free." 

Fascinated  both  by  her  appearance  and  by  the  simplicity  of  her 
trenchant  solution  of  the  difficulty.  Lord  Shotover  stared  at  the 
speaker.  Her  faith  was  infectious.  Yet  it  occurred  to  him  that 
all  women,  good  and  bad,  are  at  least  alike  in  this — that  their 
methods  become  radically  unscrupulous  when  they  find  them- 
selves in  a  tight  place. 

"It  is  a  fine  plan.  It  ought  to  work,  for — cripple  or  not — 
poor  Calmady's  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  slowly.  "But  doesn't 
it  seem  just  a  trifle  rough,  Miss  St.  Quentin,  to  ask  him  to  be 
his  own  executioner?" 

Honoria  had  slipped  down  from  the  balustrade,  and  stood 
erect  in  the  moonlight. 

"I  think  not,"  she  replied.  "Tlie  woman  pays,  as  a  rule. 
I^dy  Constance  has  paid  already  quite  heavily  enough,  don't 
you  think  so?  Now  we  will  have  the  exception  that  proves  the 
rule.  The  man  shall  pay  whatever  remains  of  the  debt.  But 
we  must  not  waste  time.  It  is  not  late  yet,  we  shall  still  find 
him  up,  and  my  brougham  is  here.  I  told  Lady  Aldham  I 
should  be  home  fairly  early.  Ciet  a  cloak,  Lady  Constance,  and 
meet  us  in  the  hall.     I  suppose  you  can  go  down  by  some  back 


346  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

way  so  as  to  avoid  meeting  people.  Lord  Shotover,  will  you 
take  me  to  say  good-night  to  your  sister,  Lady  Louisa?" 

The  young  man  fairly  chuckled. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Decies,  must  stay  and  dance." — She  smiled 
upon  him  very  sweetly.  "  I  promise  you  it  will  come  through 
all  right,  for,  as  Lord  Shotover  says,  whatever  his  misfortunes 
may  be,  Richard  Calmady  is  a  gentleman. — Ah  !  I  hope  you 
are  going  to  be  very  happy.     Good-bye." 

Decies'  black  head  went  down  over  her  hand,  and  he  kissed  it 
impulsively. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  the  words  catching  a  little  in  his  throat. 
"  When  the  time  comes,  may  you  find  the  man  to  love  you  as 
you  deserve — though  I  doubt  if  there's  such  a  man  living,  or 
dead  either,  for  that  matter  !     God  bless  you." 

Some  half-hour  later  Honoria  stood  among  the  hoUand- 
shrouded  furniture  in  Lady  Calmady's  sitting-room  in  Lowndes 
Square.  The  period  of  exalted  feeling,  of  the  conviction  of 
successful  attainment,  was  over,  and  her  heart  beat  somewhat 
painfully.  For  she  had  had  time,  by  now,  to  realise  the  surprising 
audacity  of  her  own  proceedings.  Lord  Shotover's  parley  with 
Richard  Calmady's  man-servant,  on  the  doorstep,  had  brought 
that  home  to  her,  placing  what  had  seemed  obvious,  as  a 
course  of  action  to  her  fervid  imagination,  in  quite  a  new  light. — 
Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  at  home?  He  was  still  up? — To 
that,  yes.  Would  he  see  Lady  Constance  Quayle  upon  urgent 
business? — To  that  again,  yes — after  a  rather  lengthy  delay, 
while  the  valet,  inscrutable,  yet  evidently  highly  critical,  made 
inquiries. — The  trees  in  the  square  had  whispered  together 
uncomfortably,  while  the  two  young  ladies  waited  in  the 
carriage.  And  Lord  Shotover's  shadow,  which  had  usually, 
very  surely,  nothing  in  the  least  portentous  about  it,  lay  queerly, 
three  ways  at  once,  in  varying  degrees  of  density,  across  the 
grey  pavement  in  the  conflicting  gas  and  moon-light. 

And  now,  as  she  stood  among  the  shrouded  furniture, 
which  appeared  oddly  improbable  in  shape  seen  in  the 
flickering  of  two  hastily-lighted  candles,  Honoria  could  hear 
Shotover  walking  back  and  forth,  patiently,  on  that  same  grey 
pavement  outside.  She  was  overstrained  by  the  emotions  and 
events  of  the  past  hours.  Small  matters  compelled  her  attention. 
The  creaking  of  a  board,  the  rustle  of  a  curtain,  the  silence 
even  of  this  large,  but  half-inhabited,  house,  were  to  her  big 
with  suggestion,  disquietingly  replete  with  possible  meaning,  of 
exaggerated  importance  to  her  anxiously  listening  ears. 

Lord  Shotover  had  stopped  walking.     He  was  talking  to  the 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  347 

coachman.  Honoria  entertained  a  conviction  that,  in  the  over- 
flowing of  his  good-nature,  he  talked — sooner  or  later — to  every 
soul  whom  he  met.  She  derived  almost  childish  comfort  from 
the  knowledge  of  the  near  neighbourhood  of  that  eminently  good- 
natured  presence.  Lord  Shotover's  very  obvious  faults  faded 
from  her  remembrance.  She  estimated  him  only  by  his  size, 
his  physical  strength,  his  large  indulgence  of  all  weaknesses 
— including  his  own.  He  constituted  a  link  between  her  and 
things  ordinary  and  average,  for  which  she  was  rather  absurdly 
thankful  at  this  juncture.  For  the  minutes  passed  slowly,  very 
slowly.  It  must  be  getting  on  for  half  an  hour  since  little  Lady 
Constance,  trembling  and  visibly  affrighted,  had  passed  out  of 
sight,  and  the  door  of  the  smoking-room  had  closed  behind  her. 
The  nameless  agitation  which  possessed  her  earlier  that  same 
evening  returned  upon  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  But  its  character 
had  suffered  change.  The  questioning  of  the  actual,  the 
suspicion  of  universal  illusion,  had  departed ,  and  in  its  place 
she  suffered  alarm  of  the  concrete,  of  the  incalculable  force  of 
human  passion,  and  of  a  manifestation  of  tragedy  in  some  active 
and  violent  form.  She  did  not  define  her  own  fears,  but  they 
surrounded  her  nevertheless,  so  that  the  slightest  sound  made 
her  start. 

For,  indeed,  how  slowly  the  minutes  did  pass  !  Lord  Shotover 
was  walking  again.  The  horse  rattled  its  bit,  and  pawed  the 
ground  impatient  of  delay.  Though  lofty,  the  room  appeared 
close  and  hot,  with  drawn  blinds  and  shut  windows.  Honoria 
began  to  move  about  restlessly,  threading  her  way  between 
the  pieces  of  shrouded  furniture.  A  chalk  drawing  of  Lady 
Calmady  stood  on  an  easel  in  the  far  corner.  The  portrait 
emphasised  the  sweetness  and  abiding  pathos,  rather  than  the 
strength,  of  the  original ;  and  Honoria,  standing  before  it,  put 
her  hands  over  her  eyes.  For  the  pictured  face  seemed  to  plead 
with  and  reproach  her.  Then  a  swift  fear  took  her  of  disloyalty, 
of  hastiness,  of  self-confidence  trenching  on  cruelty.  She  had 
announced,  rather  arrogantly,  that  whatever  balance  remained 
to  be  paid,  in  respect  of  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Constance  Quayle's 
proposed  marriage,  should  be  paid  by  the  man.  JJut  would  the 
man,  in  point  of  fact,  pay  it?  ^VouId  it  ncjt,  must  it  not,  be 
paid,  eventually,  by  this  other  noi)le  ami  much  enduring  woman — 
whom  she  had  called  her  friend,  and  towards  whom  she  played 
the  part,  as  she  feared,  of  betrayer?  In  her  hot  espousal  of  Lady 
Constance's  cause  she  had  only  saved  one  woman  at  the  ex[)ense 
of  another —  Oh!  how  hot  the  room  grew  !  Suffocating —  Lord 
Shotover's  steps  died   away  in    the   distance.     She  could  look 


348  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

I.ady  Calmady  in  the  face  no  more.  Secure  in  her  own  self- 
conceit  and  vanity,  she  had  betrayed  her  friend. 

Suddenly  the  sharp  peal  of  a  bell,  the  opening  of  a  door, 
the  dragging  of  silken  skirts,  and  the  hurrying  of  footsteps. — 
Honoria  gathered  up  her  somewhat  scattered  courage  and 
swung  out  into  the  hall.  Lady  Constance  Quayle  came  towards 
her,  groping,  staggering,  breathless,  her  face  convulsed  with 
weeping.  But  to  this,  for  the  moment,  Miss  St.  Quentin 
paid  small  heed.  For,  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  a  bright 
light  streamed  out  from  the  open  doorway.  And  in  the 
full  glare  of  it  stood  a  young  man — his  head,  with  its  cap  of 
close-cropped  curls,  proudly  distinguished  as  that  of  some 
classic  hero,  his  features  the  beautiful  features  of  Katherine 
Calmady,  his  height  but  two-thirds  the  height  a  man  of  his 
make  should  be,  his  face  drawn  and  livid  as  that  of  a  corpse, 
his  arms  hanging  down  straight  at  his  sides,  his  hands  only 
just  not  touching  the  marble  quarries  of  the  floor  on  either  side 
of  him. 

Honoria  uttered  an  exclamation  of  uncontrollable  pity  and 
horror,  caught  Constance  Quayle  by  the  arm,  and  hurried  out 
into  the  moonlit  square  to  the  waiting  carriage.  Lord  Shotover 
flung  away  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  strolled  towards  them. 

"Got  through,  fixed  it  all  right — eh,  Connie?  Bravo — that's 
grand  ! — Oh,  you  needn't  tell  me  !  I  can  imagine  it's  been  a 
beastly  piece  of  work,  but  anyway  it's  over  now.  You  must  go 
home  and  go  to  bed,  and  I'll  account  for  you  somehow  to 
Louisa.  My  mind's  becoming  quite  inventive  to-night,  I  promise 
you. — There,  get  in — try  to  pull  yourself  together.  Miss  St. 
Quentin,  upon  my  word  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you. 
You've  been  magnificent,  and  put  us  under  an  everlasting 
obligation,  Con  and  Decies,  and  my  father  and  me. — Nice  night 
isn't  it?  You'll  put  us  down  in  Albert  Gate?  All  right.  A 
thousand  thanks. — Yes,  I'll  go  on  the  box  again.  You  haven't 
much  room  for  my  legs  among  all  those  flounces.  Bless  me, 
it  occurs  to  me  I'm  getting  confoundedly  hungry.  I  shall  be 
awfully  glad  of  some  supper." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  349 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    MAKIFKSTATION    Ol"    THE    SPIRIT 

BROCKHURST  HOUSE  had  slumbered  all  day  long  in 
the  steady  warmth  of  the  July  sun.  The  last  three 
weeks  had  been  rainless,  so  that  the  short  turf  of  the  uplands 
began  to  grow  crisp  and  discoloured,  while  the  resinous  scent 
of  the  fir  forest,  at  once  stimulating  and  soothing,  was  carried 
afar  out  over  the  sloping  cornfields  and  low-lying  pastures. 
Above  the  stretches  of  purple-budding  heather  and  waste  sandy 
places,  upon  the  moors,  the  heat-haze  danced  and  quivered  as 
do  vapours  arising  from  a  furnace.  Along  the  under  side  of 
the  great  woods,  and  in  the  turn  of  the  valleys,  shadows  lingered, 
which  were  less  actual  shadows  than  blottings  of  blue  light. 
The  birds,  busy  feeding  wide-mouthed,  hungry  fledgelings,  had 
mostly  ceased  from  song.  But  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees  and 
chirrup  of  grasshoppers  was  continuous,  and  told,  very  pleasantly, 
of  the  sunshine  and  large  plenty  reigning  out  of  doors. 

For  Katherine  the  day  in  question  had  passed  in  Martha- 
like occupations. — A  day  of  organising,  of  ordering  and  counter- 
manding, a  day  of  much  detail,  much  interviewing  of  heads  of 
departments,  a  day  of  meeting  respectful  objections,  enlightening 
thick  understandings,  gently  reducing  decorously  opposing  wills. 
Commissariat,  transport,  housing  of  guests,  and  the  servants  of 
guests — all  these  entered  into  the  matter  of  the  coming  wedding. 
To  compass  the  doing  of  all  things,  not  only  decently  and  in 
order,  but  handsomely,  and  with  a  becoming  dignity,  this 
required  time  and  thought.  And  so,  it  was  not  until  after 
dinner  that  Katherine  found  herself  at  leisure  to  cease  taking 
thought  for  the  morrow.  Too  tired  to  rest  herself  by  reading, 
she  wandered  out  on  the  troco-ground  followed  by  Camp. 

London  had  not  altogether  suited  the  bull-dog  as  the  summer 
wore  on.  Now,  in  his  old  age,  so  considerable  a  change  of  sur- 
roundings put  him  about  both  in  body  and  mind.  Seeing 
which,  Richard  had  begged  his  mother  to  take  the  dog  with  her 
on  leaving  town.  Cam[)  benefited,  unquestionably,  by  his  return 
to  country  air.  His  coat  stand  less.  He  carried  his  ears  and 
tail  with  more  sprightliness  and  conviction.  Still  he  fretted 
after  his  absent  master,  and  followed  Katherine's  footsteps  very 
closely,  his  foreh'-ad  more  than  ever  wrinkled  and  his  unsightly 
mouth  pensive  notwithstanding  its  perpetual  grin.     He  attended 


350  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her  now,  squatting  beside  her  when  she  paused,  trotting  slowly 
beside  her  when  she  moved,  a  silent,  persistent,  and,  as  it  might 
seem,  somewhat  fatefully  faithful  companion. 

Yet  the  occasion  was  to  all  appearances  far  from  fateful,  the 
night  and  the  scene,  alike,  being  very  fair.  The  moon  had  not 
yet  risen,  but  a  brightness  behind  the  sawlike  edge  of  the  fir 
woods  eastward  heralded  its  coming,  while  sufficient  light  yet 
remained  in  the  western  and  northern  sky  for  the  mass  of  the 
house,  its  ruddy  walls  and  ranges  of  muUioned  windows,  its 
pierced,  stone  parapet  and  stacks  of  slender,  twisted  chimneys, 
to  be  seen  with  a  low-toned  distinctness  of  form  and  colour 
infinitely  charming.  Soft  and  rich  as  velvet,  it  rose,  with  a  certain 
noble  serenity,  above  its  terraces  and  fragrant,  red-walled  gardens, 
under  the  enormous  dome  of  the  tranquil,  far-off,  evening  sky. 

Every  aspect  of  this  place,  in  rain  and  shine,  summer  and 
winter,  from  dawn  to  dark  and  round  to  dawn  again,  was 
familiar  to  Katherine  Calmady.  Coming  here  first,  as  a  bride, 
the  homely  splendour  of  the  house,  and  the  gladness  of  its 
situation  crowning  the  ridge  of  hill,  appealed  strongly  to  her 
imagination.  Later  it  sheltered  her  long  sorrow,  following  so 
hard  on  the  heels  of  her  brief  joy.  But,  in  both  alike,  during  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  her  thought  and  of  her  career,  the  face  of 
Brockhurst  remained  as  that  of  a  friend,  kindly,  beneficent,  in- 
creasingly trusted  and  beloved.  And  so  she  had  come  to  know 
every  stick  and  stone  of  it,  from  spacious,  vaulted  cellar  to  equally 
spacious,  low-roofed,  sun-dried  attic — -the  outlook  from  each 
window,  the  character  of  each  room,  the  turn  of  each  stairway, 
the  ample  proportions  of  each  lobby  and  stair-head,  all  the 
pleasant  scents,  and  sounds,  and  colours,  that  haunted  it  both 
within  and  without.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  after 
so  many  years  of  affectionate  observation  and  commerce, 
Brockhurst  could  have  no  new  word  in  its  tongue,  could  hold  no 
further  self-revelation,  for  Lady  Calmady.  Yet,  as  she  passed 
now  from  the  arcaded  garden-hall,  supporting  the  eastern  bay  of 
the  Long  Gallery,  on  to  the  level,  green  square  of  the  troco-ground, 
and  stood  gazing  out  over  the  downward  sloping  park — the 
rough,  short  turf  of  it  dotted  with  ancient  thorn  trees  and  broken 
by  beds  of  bracken  and  dog-roses — to  the  Long  Water,  glisten- 
ing like  some  giant  mirror  some  quarter-mile  distant  in  the 
valley,  she  became  sensible  of  a  novel  element  in  her  present 
relation  to  this  place. 

For  the  first  time,  in  all  her  long  experience,  she  was  at 
Brockhurst  quite  alone.  The  house  was  vacant  even  of  a  friend. 
For  Julius  March  had,  rather  to  Katherine's  surprise,  selected  just 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  351 

this  moment  for  the  paying  of  his  yearly  visit  to  a  certain  college 
friend,  a  scholarly  and  godly  person,  now  rector  of  a  sleepy, 
country  parish  away  in  the  heart  of  the  great  Midlandshire  grass- 
lands. Katherine  experienced  a  momentary  sense  of  injury  at 
his  going.  Yet  perhaps  it  was  as  well.  Between  the  turmoil  of 
the  past  London  season,  the  coming  turmoil  of  the  wedding 
and  the  large  and  serious  issues  which  that  wedding  involved, 
this  time  of  solitude  might  be  salutary.  To  Katherine,  just  now, 
it  seemed  as  a  bridge  carrying  her  over  from  one  way  of  life  to 
another.  A  but  slightly  known  country  lay  ahead.  Solitude  and 
self-recollection  are  good  for  the  soul  if  it  would  possess  itself  in 
peace.  The  fair  brightness  of  the  Indwelling  Light  had  not  been 
obscured  in  her  during  these  months  devoted  to  the  world  and 
to  society.  But  it  was  inevitable  that  her  consciousness  of  it, 
and  consequently  its  clear-shining,  should  have  suffered  diminu- 
tion at  times.  The  eager  pressure  of  things  to  be  done,  things 
to  be  seen,  of  much  conversation,  the  varied  pageant  of  modern 
life  perpetually  presented  to  her  eyes  and  her  intelligence,  could 
not  but  crowd  out  the  spiritual  order  somewhat.  Of  late  she  had 
had  only  time  to  smile  upon  her  God  in  passing,  instead  of  spend- 
ing long  hours  within  the  courts  of  His  temple.  This  she  knew. 
It  troubled  her  a  little.  She  desired  to  return  to  a  condition  of 
more  complete  self-coUectedness.  And  so,  the  first  movement 
of  surprise  past,  she  hailed  her  solitude  as  a  means  of  grace,  and 
strove,  in  sweet  sincerity,  to  make  good  use  of  it. 

And  yet — since  the  human  heart,  if  sound  and  wholesome, 
hungers,  even  when  penetrated  by  godward  devotion,  for  some 
fellow-creature  on  whom  to  expend  its  tenderness — Katherine, 
just  now,  regretted  to  be  alone.  The  scene  was  so  beautiful, 
she  would  gladly  have  had  someone  look  on  it  beside  herself,  and 
share  its  charm.  Then  thoughts  of  the  future  obtruded  them- 
selves. How  would  little  Constance  Quayle  view  Brockhurst  ? 
Would  it  claim  her  love  ?  Would  she  embrace  the  sjjirit  of  it,  and 
make  it  not  only  the  home  of  her  fair,  young  body,  but  the  home 
of  her  guileless  heart?  Katherine  yearned  in  spirit  over  this  girl 
standing  on  the  threshold  of  all  the  deeper  experiences  of  a 
woman's  life,  of  those  amazing  revelations  which  marriage  holds 
for  an  innocent  and  modest  maiden. — But  oh  !  how  lovely  are 
such  revelations  when  the  lover  is  also  the  beloved  ! 

Katherine  moved  on  a  few  paces.  The  thought  of  all  that, 
even  now  at  forty-eight,  cut  her  a  little  too  sharply.  It  is  not  wise 
to  call  up  visions  of  joys  that  are  dead.  She  wcnild  think  of 
something  else,  so  she  told  herself,  as  she  paused  in  her  rustling 
grey  dress  upon  the  dry,  gravel  path,  the  surface  of  which  still 


352  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sensibly  held  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  while  Camp  squatted 
soberly  on  his  haunches  beside  her.  But,  at  first,  only  worrying 
thoughts  responded  to  her  call. — It  was  not  quite  kind,  surely,  of 
Julius  to  have  left  home  just  now.  It  was  a  little  inconsiderate 
of  him.  If  she  dwelt  on  the  thought  of  that,  clearly  it  would  vex 
her — so  it  must  be  banished.  Reynolds,  the  housekeeper,  had 
really  been  very  perverse  about  the  turning  of  the  two  larger  china- 
closets  into  extra  dressing-rooms  for  the  week  of  the  wedding, 
and  Clara  showed  an  inclination  to  back  her  up  in  opposition. 
Of  course  the  maids  would  give  in — they  always  did,  and  that 
without  any  subsequent  attempt  at  small  reprisals.  Still  the 
thought  of  that,  too,  was  annoying  and  must  be  banished. — At 
dinner  she  had  received  a  singular  letter  from  Honoria  St. 
Quentin.  It  contained  what  appeared  to  Katherine  as  rather 
over-urgent  protestations  of  affection  and  offers  of  service,  if 
at  any  future  time  she — the  writer — could  be  of  use.  The  letter 
was  charming  in  its  slight  extravagance.  But  it  struck  Katherine 
as  incomprehensibly  penitent  in  tone — the  letter  of  one  who  has 
not  treated  a  friend  quite  loyally  and  is  hot  with  anxiety  to  atone. 
It  was  dated  this  morning  too,  and  must  have  been  posted 
at  some  surprisingly  early  hour  to  have  thus  reached  Brock- 
hurst  by  the  day  mail.  Lady  Calmady  did  not  quite  relish 
the  missive,  somehow,  notwithstanding  its  affection.  It  lacked 
the  perfection  of  personal  dignity  which  had  pleased  her 
heretofore  in  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  She  felt  vaguely  disap- 
pointed. And  it  followed  that  this  thought,  therefore,  must  go 
along  with  the  rest.  For  she  refused  to  be  disquieted.  She 
would  compel  herself  to  be  at  peace. 

So,  putting  these  small  sources  of  discomfort  from  her,  as 
unworthy  both  of  her  better  understanding  and  of  this  fair  hour 
and  fair  place,  Katherine  yielded  herself  wholly  to  the  influences 
of  her  surroundings.  The  dew  was  rising — promise  of  another  hot, 
clear  day  to-morrow — and  along  with  it  rose  a  fragrance  of  wild 
thyme  from  the  grass  slopes  immediately  below.  That  fragrance 
mingled  with  the  richer  scents  of  jasmine,  full-cupped,  July  roses, 
scarlet,  trumpet-flowered  honeysuckle,  tall  lilies,  and  great  wealth 
of  heavy-headed,  clove  carnations,  veiling  the  red  walls  or  set  in 
the  trim  borders  of  the  gardens  behind.  A  strangely  belated 
nightingale  still  sang  in  the  big,  Portugal  laurel  beside  the  quaint, 
pepper-pot  summer-house  in  the  far  corner  of  the  troco-ground, 
where  the  twenty-foot,  brick  wall  dips,  in  steps  of  well-set  masonry, 
to  the  grey,  three-foot  balustrade.  She  never  remembered  to  have 
heard  one  sing  so  late  in  the  summer.  The  bird  was  answered, 
moreover,  by  another  singer  from  the  coppice,  bordering  the  trout- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  353 

stream  which  feeds  the  Long  Water,  away  across  the  valley.  In 
each  case  the  song  was,  note  for  note,  the  same.  But  the  chant 
of  the  near  bird  was  hotly  urgent  in  its  passion  of  "  wooing  and 
winning ; "  while  the  song  of  the  answerer  came  chastened  and 
etherealised  by  distance.  A  fox  barked  sharply  on  the  left,  out  in 
the  Warren.  And  the  churring  of  the  night-hawks,  as  they  flitted 
hither  and  thither  over  the  beds  of  bracken  and  dog-roses,  like 
gigantic  moths,  on  swift,  silent  wings,  formed  a  continuous 
accompaniment,  as  of  a  spinning-wheel,  to  the  other  sounds. 

Never,  as  she  watched  and  listened,  had  the  genius  of 
Brockhurst  appeared  more  potent  or  more  enthralling.  For  a 
space  she  rested  in  it,  asking  nothing  beyond  that  which  sight 
and  hearing  could  give.  It  was  very  good  to  breathe  the  scented 
air  and  be  lulled  by  the  inarticulate  music  of  nature.  It  was 
good  to  cease  from  self  and  from  all  individual  striving,  to 
become  a  part  merely  of  the  universal  movement  of  things,  a 
link  merely  in  the  mighty  chain  of  universal  being.  But  such  an 
impersonal  attitude  of  mind  cannot  last  long,  least  of  all  in  the 
case  of  a  woman  !  Katharine's  heart  awoke  and  cried  again  for 
some  human  object  on  which  to  expend  itself,  some  kindred  in- 
telligence to  meet  and  reflect  her  own.  Ah,  were  she  but  better, 
more  holy  and  more  wise,  these  cravings  would  doubtless  not 
assail  her  !  The  worship  of  the  Indwelling  Light  would  suffice, 
and  she  would  cease  from  desire  of  the  love  of  any  creature. 
But  she  had  not  journeyed  so  far  upon  the  road  of  perfection  yet, 
as  she  sadly  told  herself.  Far  from  it.  The  nightingale  sang  on, 
sang  of  love,  not  far  hence,  not  far  above,  not  within  the  spirit 
only,  but  here,  warm,  immediate,  and  individual.  And,  do  what  she 
would,  the  song  brought  to  her  mind  such  love,  as  she  herself  had 
known  it  during  the  few  golden  months  of  her  marriage — of  meet- 
ings at  night,  sweet  and  sacred  ;  of  partings,  sweet  and  sacred  too, 
at  morning ;  of  secret  delights ;  of  moments,  at  once  pure  and 
voluptuous,  known  only  to  virtuous  lovers.  It  was  not  often  that 
remembrance  of  all  this  came  back  to  her,  save  as  a  faint  echo  of 
a  once  clear-sounding  voice.  Indeed  she  had  supposed  it  all  laid 
away  forever,  done  with,  even  as  the  l)right  colours  it  had  once 
so  plea.sed  her  to  wear  were  laid  away  in  high,  mahogany  presses 
that  lined  one  side  of  the  lofty  state-bedroom  upstairs.  But  now 
remembrance  laid  violent  hands  on  her,  shaking  both  mind  and 
body  from  their  calm.  The  passion  of  the  bird's  song,  the 
caressing  suavity  of  the  summer  night,  the  knowledge,  too,  that 
so  soon  another  bride  and  bridegroom  would  dwell  here  at 
Brockhurst,  worked  U[)on  her  strangely.  She  struggled  with 
herself,   surprised   and    half  angered   by  the  force  of   her  own 

23 


354  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

emotion,  and  pleaded  at  once  against,  and  for,  the  satisfaction  of 
the  immense  nostalgia  which  possessed  her. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  bitter,  very  bitter,  to  have  had  at  once  so  much  and 
so  little.  Bow  my  proud  neck,  O  Lord,  to  Thy  yoke. — If  my  be- 
loved had  but  been  spared  to  me  I  had  never  walked  in  darkness, 
far  from  the  way  of  faith,  and  my  child  had  never  suffered  bodily 
disfigurement.  Perfect  me,  O  God,  even  at  the  cost  of  further 
suffering.  It  is  sad  to  be  shut  away  from  the  joys  of  my  woman- 
hood, while  my  life  is  still  strong  in  me.  Break  me,  O  Lord, 
even  as  the  ploughshare  breaks  the  reluctant  clod.  Hold  not 
Thy  hand  till  the  work  be  fully  accomplished,  and  the  earth  be 
ready  for  the  sowing  which  makes  for  harvest. — Give  me  back 
the  beloved  of  my  youth,  the  beloved  of  my  life,  if  only  for  an 
hour.  Teach  me  to  submit. — Show  me,  beyond  all  dread  of 
contradiction  that  vows,  truly  made,  hold  good  even  in  that 
mysterious  world  beyond  the  grave.  Show  me  that  though  the 
body — dear  home  and  vehicle  of  love — may  die,  yet  love  in  its 
essence  remains  everlastingly  conscious,  faithful  and  complete. 
Bend  my  will  to  harmony  with  Thine,  O  Lord,  and  cleanse  me 
of  self-seeking. — Ah  !  but  still  let  me  see  his  face  once  again,  once 
again,  oh,  my  God — and  I  will  rebel  no  more.  Let  me  look  on 
hmi,  once  again,  if  only  for  a  moment,  and  I  shall  be  content. 
Hear  me,  I  am  greatly  troubled,  I  am  athirst — I  faint " — 

Katherine's  prayer,  which  had  risen  into  audible  speech,  sank 
away  into  silence.  The  near  nightingale  had  fallen  silent  also. 
But  from  across  the  valley,  chastened  and  etherealised  by 
distance,  still  came  the  song  of  the  answering  bird.  To 
Katherine  those  fine  and  delicate  notes  were  full  of  promise. 
They  bore  testimony  to  the  soul  which  dwells  forever  behind 
the  outward  aspect  and  sense.  Whether  she  fainted  in  good 
truth,  or  whether  she  passed,  for  a  while,  into  that  sublimated  state 
of  consciousness  wherein  the  veils  of  habit  cease  to  blind  and 
something  of  the  eternal  essence  and  values  of  things  is  revealed — ■ 
perception  overstepping,  for  once,  the  limits  of  ordinary,  earth- 
bound  apprehension  and  transcending  ordinary  circumscription 
of  time  and  place — she  could  not  tell.  Nor  did  she  greatly  care. 
For  a  great  peace  descended  upon  her,  accompanied  by  a  gentle, 
yet  penetrating  expectancy.  She  stood  very  still,  her  feet  set  on 
the  warm  gravel,  the  night  air  wrapping  her  about  as  with  a 
fragrant  garment,  the  ghostly  sweetness  of  that  far-away  bird-song 
in  her  ears,  while  momentarily  the  conviction  of  the  near  presence 
of  the  man  who  had  so  loved  her,  and  whom  she  had  so  loved, 
deepened  within  her.  And  therefore  it  was  without  alarm,  with- 
out any  shock  of  amazement,  that  gradually  she  found  her  aware- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  355 

ness  of  that  presence  change  from  something  felt,  to  something 
actually  seen. 

He  came  towards  her — that  first  Richard  Calmady,  her 
husband  and  lover  —  across  the  smooth,  green  levels  of  the 
troco-ground  which  lay  dusky  in  the  mingling  half-lights  of  the 
nearly  departed  sunset  and  the  rising  moon — as  he  had  come  to 
her  a  hundred  times  in  life,  back  from  the  farms  or  the  moor- 
lands, from  sport  or  from  business,  or  from  those  early  morning 
rides,  the  clean  freshness  of  the  morning  upon  him,  after  seeing 
his  racehorses  galloped.  He  came  bareheaded,  in  easy  work- 
manlike garments,  short  coat,  breeches,  long  boots  and  spurs. 
He  came  with  the  repose  of  movement  which  is  born  of  a  well- 
knit  frame,  and  a  temperate  life,  and  the  grace  of  gentle  blood. 
He  came  with  the  half  smile  on  his  lips,  and  the  gladness  in  his 
eyes  when  they  first  met  hers,  which  had  always  been  there  how- 
ever brief  the  parting.  And  Katherine  perceived  it  was  just  thus 
our  beloved  dead  must  needs  return  to  us — should  they  return  at 
all — laying  aside  the  splendours  of  the  spirit  in  tenderness  for 
mortal  weakness.  Even  as  the  Christ  laid  aside  the  visible  glory 
of  the  Godhead,  and  came  a  babe  among  men,  so  must  they 
come  in  humble,  every-day  fashion,  graciously  taking  on  the 
manner  and  habit  common  to  them  during  earthly  life.  There- 
fore she  suffered  no  shrinking,  but  turned  instinctively,  as  she 
had  turned  a  hundred  times,  laughing  very  softly  in  the  fulness 
of  content,  raising  her  hands,  throwing  back  her  head,  knowing 
that  he  would  come  behind  her  and  take  her  hands  in  his,  and 
kiss  her,  so,  bending  down  over  her  shoulder.  And,  when  he 
came,  she  did  not  need  to  speak,  but  only  to  gaze  into  the  well- 
beloved  face,  familiar,  yet  touched — as  it  seemed  to  her- — with  a 
mysterious  and  awful  beauty,  beholding  which  she  divined  the 
answer  to  many  questions. 

For  she  perceived,  as  one  waking  from  an  uneasy  dream 
perceives  the  comfortable  truth  of  day,  that  her  love  was  not 
given  back  to  her,  for  the  dear  reason  that  her  love  had  never 
been  taken  away.  The  fiction  of  Time  ceased  to  rule  in  her,  so 
that  the  joy  of  bride  and  new-wed  wife,  the  strange,  sweet 
perplexities  of  dawning  motherhood  were  with  her  now,  not  as 
memories  merely,  but  as  actual,  ever-present,  deathless  facts — the 
culminating,  and  therefore  permanent,  revelation  of  her  individual 
experience.  .She  [lerreived  this  continued  and  must  continue, 
since  it  was  the  fine  flower  of  her  nature,  the  unit  of  her  personal 
equation,  the  realisation  of  the  eternal  purpose  concerning  her  of 
Almighty  God.  The  fiction  of  old  age  was  discredited,  so  was 
the  bitterness  of  deposition,  the  mournful  fiction  of  being  passed 


356  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

by  and  relegated  to  the  second  place.  Her  place  was  her  own. 
Her  standing  ground  in  the  universal  order,  a  freehold,  absolute 
and  inalienable.  She  could  not  abdicate  her  throne,  neither 
could  any  wrest  it  away  from  her.  She  perceived  that  not  self- 
effacement,  but  self-development,  not  dissolution,  but  evolution, 
was  the  service  required  of  her.  And,  as  divinely  designed 
contribution  to  that  end  was  every  joy,  every  sorrow,  laid 
upon  her ;  since  by  these  was  she  differentiated  from  all  others, 
by  these  was  she  built  up  into  a  separate  existence,  sane, 
harmonious,  well-proportioned,  a  fair  lamp  lighted  with  a 
burning  coal  from  off  the  altar  of  that  God  of  whom  it  is  written, 
not  only  that  He  is  a  consuming  fire,  but  that  He  is  Love. 

All  this,  and  more,  did  Katherine  apprehend,  beholding  the 
familiar,  yet  mysterious  countenance  of  her  well-beloved.  And 
the  tendency  of  that  apprehension  made  for  tranquillity  of 
spirit,  for  a  sure  and  certain  hope.  The  faculty  which  reasons, 
demands  explanation  and  proof,  might  not  be  satisfied  ;  but  that 
higher  faculty  which  divines,  accepts,  believes,  assuredly  was  so. 
Nor  could  it  be  otherwise,  since  it  is  the  spirit,  the  idea,  not  the 
letter,  which  giveth  life. 

How  long  she  stood  thus,  in  tender  and  illuminating,  though 
wordless,  communion  with  the  dead,  Katherine  did  not  know. 
The  deepest  spiritual  experiences,  like  the  most  exquisite 
physical  ones,  are  to  be  measured  by  intensity  rather  than 
duration.  For  a  space  the  vision  sensibly  held  her,  the  so 
ardently  desired  presence  there  incontestibly  beside  her,  a 
personality  vivid  and  distinct,  yet  in  a  way  remote,  serene  as  the 
immense  dome  of  the  cloudless  sky,  chastened  and  etherealised 
as  the  song  of  the  answering  nightingale ;  and  in  this  differing 
from  any  bodily  presence,  as  the  song  in  question  differed  from 
that  of  the  bird  in  the  laurel  close  at  hand. 

Gradually,  and  with  such  sense  of  refreshment  as  one  enjoys 
who,  bathing  in  some  clear  stream  at  evening,  washes  away 
all  soil  and  sweat  of  a  weary  journey,  Katherine  awoke  to 
more  ordinary  observation  of  her  material  surroundings.  She 
became  aware  that  the  dog.  Camp,  had  turned  singularly 
restless.  He  slunk  away  as  though  wishing  to  avoid  her  near 
neighbourhood,  crawled  back  to  her,  with  dragging  hind- 
quarters, cringing  and  whining  as  though  in  acute  distress.  And, 
by  degrees,  another  sound  obtruded  itself,  speaking  of  haste  and 
effort,  notably  at  variance  with  the  delicate  and  gracious  stillness. 
It  came  from  the  highroad  crossing  the  open  moor,  which 
loomed  up  a  dark,  straight  ridge  against  the  .southern  horizon. 
It   came  in   rising   and   falling   cadence,  but   ever  nearer  and 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  357 

nearer,  increasingly  distinct,  increasingly  urgent — the  fast,  steady 
trot  of  a  horse.  The  moon,  meanwhile,  had  swept  clear  of  the 
sawlike  edge  of  the  fir  forest ;  and,  while  the  thin,  white  light  of  it 
broadened  upon  the  dewy  grass  and  the  beat  of  the  horse-hoofs 
rang  out  clearer  and  clearer,  Katherine  was  aware  that  the  dear 
vision  faded  and  grew  faint.  As  it  had  come,  softly,  without 
amazement  or  fear,  so  it  departed,  without  agitation  or  sadness 
of  farewell,  leaving  Katherine  profoundly  consoled,  the  glory  of 
her  womanhood  restored  to  her  in  the  indubitable  assurance  that 
what  had  been  of  necessity  continued,  and  forever  was. 

And,  therefore,  she  still  listened  but  idly  to  the  approaching 
sound,  not  reckoning  with  it  as  yet,  though  the  roll  of  wheels 
was  now  added  to  the  rapid  beat  of  the  hoofs  of  a  trotting 
horse.  It  had  turned  down  over  the  hillside  by  the  cross  road 
leading  to  the  upper  lodge.  Suddenly  it  ceased.  The  shout  of 
a  man's  voice,  loud  and  imperative,  a  momentary  pause,  then 
the  clang  of  heavy,  iron  gates  swinging  back  into  place  ;  and  once 
again  the  roll  of  wheels  and  that  steady,  urgent,  determined  trot, 
coming  nearer  and  nearer  down  the  elm  avenue,  whose  stately 
rows  of  trees  looked  as  though  made  of  ebony  and  burnished 
silver  in  the  slanting  moonlight.  On  it  came  across  the  bridge 
spanning  the  glistering  whiteness  of  the  Long  Water.  And  on 
again,  steadily  and  no  less  rapidly,  as  though  pressed  by  the 
hand  of  a  somewhat  merciless  driver,  hot  to  arrive,  bearer  of 
stirring  tidings,  up  the  steeply  ascending  hill  to  the  house. 

Lady  Calmady  listened,  beginning  to  question  whom  this 
nocturnal  disturber  of  the  peace  of  Brockhurst  might  be.  But 
only  vaguely  as  yet,  since  that  which  she  had  recently 
experienced  was  so  great,  so  wide-reaching  in  its  meaning  and 
promise,  that,  for  the  moment,  it  dwarfed  all  other  possible,  all 
other  imaginable,  events.  The  gracious  tranciuillity  which 
enveloped  her  could  not  be  penetrated  by  any  anxiety  or 
premonition  of  momentous  happenings  as  yet.  It  was  not  so, 
however,  with  Camp.  Vot  a  spirit  of  extravagant  and  unreasoning 
excitement  appeared  to  seize  on  the  dog.  Forgetful  of  age,  of 
stiff  limbs  and  short-coming  breath,  he  gambolled  round  Lady 
Calmady,  describing  crazy  circles  upon  the  grass,  and  barking 
until  the  unseemly  din  echoed  back  harshly  from  against  the 
great  red  and  grey  fac^adc.  Hi-  fawned  upon  lu  r,  abject,  yet 
compelling ;  and,  at  last,  as  though  exasperated  by  her  absence 
of  resi)onse,  turned  tail  and  bounded  away  through  the  garden- 
hall  and  along  the  terrace,  disappearing  through  the  small,  arched 
side-door  into  the  house.  And  there,  within,  stir  and  movement 
became  momentarily  more  a[)[)arent.     Shifting  lights  flashed  out 


358  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAUY 

through  the  many-paned  windows,  as  though  in  quick  search  of 
some  eagerly  desired  presence. 

Nevertheless,  for  a  little  space,  Katherine  lingered,  the 
fragrance  of  the  wild  thyme  and  of  the  fair  gardens  still  about 
her,  the  somnolent  churring  of  the  night-hawks  and  faint  notes  of 
the  nightingale's  song  still  saluting  her  ears.  It  was  so  difficult 
to  return  to  and  cope  with  the  demands  of  ordinary  life.  For  had 
she  not  been  caught  up  into  the  third  heaven  and  heard  words 
unspeakable,  unlawful,  in  their  entirety,  for  living  man  to  utter? 

But  things  terrestrial,  in  this  case  as  in  so  many  other  cases, 
refused  to  make  large  room  for,  or  brook  delay  from,  things 
celestial.  Two  servants  came  out,  hurriedly,  from  that  same 
arched  side-door.  Then  Clara,  that  devoted  handmaiden, 
called  from  the  window  of  the  red  drawing-room. 

"  Her  ladyship's  there,  on  the  troco-ground.  Don't  you  see, 
Mr.  Winter?" 

The  butler  hurried  along  the  terrace.  Katherine  met  him 
on  the  steps  of  the  garden-hall. 

"Is  anything  wrong.  Winter?"  she  asked  kindly,  for  the 
trusted  servant  betrayed  unusual  signs  of  emotion.  "Am  I 
wanted  ?  " 

"  Sir  Richard  has  returned,  my  lady,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
shook.  "  Sir  Richard  is  in  the  Gun-Room.  He  gave  orders 
that  your  ladyship  should  be  told  that  he  would  be  glad  to  speak 
to  you  immediately." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN    WHICH    DICKIK    SHAKES    HANDS    WITH    THE    DEVIL 

"  "jV   /T  Y  dear,  this  is  quite  unexpected." 

W\^  Lady  Calmady's  tone  was  one  of  quiet,  innate  joy- 

ousness.  A  gentle  brightness  pervaded  her  whole  aspect  and 
manner.  She  looked  wonderfully  young,  as  though  the  hands 
of  the  clock  had  been  put  back  by  some  twenty  and  odd  years. 
Every  line  had  disappeared  from  her  face,  and  in  her  eyes  was 
a  clear  shining  very  lovely  to  behold.  Richard  glanced  at  her 
as  she  came  swiftly  towards  him  across  the  room.  Then  he 
looked  down  again,  and  answered  deliberately : — 

"  Yes,  it  is,  as  you  say,  quite  unexpected.  This  time  last 
night  I  as  little  anticipated  being  back  here  as  you  anticipated 
my  coming.  But  one's  plans  change  rapidly  and  radically  at 
times.     Mine  have  done  so." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  359 

He  sat  at  the  large,  library  writing-table,  a  pile  of  letters, 
papers,  circulars,  before  him,  judged  uiiworthy  of  forwarding, 
which  had  accumulated  during  his  absence.  He  tore  off 
wrappers,  tore  open  envelopes,  quickly  yet  methodically,  as 
though  bending  his  mind  with  conscious  determination  to  the 
performance  of  a  self-inflicted  task.  Looking  at  the  contents 
of  each  in  turn,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  indifference  and  close 
attention,  he  flung  the  major  part  into  the  waste-paper  basket 
set  beside  his  revolving-chair.  A  tall,  green-shaded  lamp  shed 
a  circle  of  vivid  light  upon  the  silver  and  maroon  leather 
furnishings  of  the  writing-table,  upon  the  young  man's  bent 
head,  and  upon  his  restless  hands  as  they  grasped,  and 
straightened,  and  then  tore,  with  measured  if  impatient  precision, 
the  letters  and  papers  lying  before  him. 

Lady  Calmady  stood  resting  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  the 
corner  of  the  table,  looking  down  at  him  with  those  clear  shining 
eyes.  His  reception  of  her  had  not  been  demonstrative,  but 
of  that  she  was  hardly  sensible.  The  reconciling  assurances  of 
faith,  the  glories  of  the  third  heaven,  still  dazzled  her  somewhat. 
Her  feet  hardly  touched  earth  yet,  so  that  her  mother-love,  and 
all  its  sensitive  watchfulness  was,  as  yet,  somewhat  in  abeyance. 
She  spoke  again  with  the  same  quiet  joyousness  of  tone. 

"  You  should  have  telegraphed  to  me,  dearest,  and  then  all 
would  have  been  ready  to  welcome  you.  As  it  is,  I  fear,  you 
must  feel  yourself  a  trifle  neglected.  I  have  been,  or  have 
fancied  myself,  mightily  busy  all  day — foolishly  cumbered  about 
much  serving — and  had  gone  out  to  forget  maids,  and  food,  and 
domesticities  generally,  into  the  dear  garden." — She  paused, 
smiling.  "Ah  !  it  is  a  gracious  night,"  she  said,  "full  of  inspira- 
tion. You  must  have  enjoyed  the  drive  home.  The  household 
refuses  to  take  this  marriage  of  yours  philosophically,  Dickie. 
It  demands  great  magnificence,  quite  as  much,  be  sure,  for  its 
own  glorification  as  for  yours.  It  also  multiplies  small  difficulties, 
after  the  manner  of  well-conducted  households,  as  I  imagine, 
since  the  world  began." 

Richard  tore  the  prospectus  of  a  mining  company,  offering 
wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  right  across  with  a  certain 
violence. 

"Oh,  well,  the  household  may  forego  its  magnificence  and 
cease  from  tiie  multiplication  of  small  difficulties  alike,  as  far  as 
any  marriage  of  mine  is  concerned.  You  can  tell  the  household 
so  to-morrow,  mother,  or  I  can.  Perhaps  the  irony  of  the 
position  would  be  more  nicely  pointed  by  the  announcement 
coming  directly  from  myself.     That  would  heighten  the  drama." 


36o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  But,  Dickie,  my  dearest  ? "  Katherine  said,  greatly  per- 
plexed. 

"  The  whole  affair  is  at  an  end.  Lady  Constance  Quayle  is 
not  going  to  marry  me,  and  I  am  not  going  to  marry  Lady 
Constance  Quayle. — On  that  point  at  least  she  and  I  are  entirely 
at  one.  All  London  will  know  this  to-morrow.  Perhaps  Brock- 
hurst,  in  the  interests  of  its  endangered  philosophy,  had  better 
know  it  to-night." 

Richard  leaned  forward,  opening,  tearing,  sorting  the  papers 
again.  A  rasping  quality  was  in  his  voice  and  speech,  hitherto 
unknown  to  his  mother;  a  cold,  imperious  quality  in  his 
manner,  also,  new  to  her.  And  these  brought  her  down  to  earth, 
setting  her  feet  thereon  uncompromisingly.  And  the  earth  on 
which  they  were  thus  set  was,  it  must  be  owned,  rather  ugly. 
A  woman  made  of  weaker  stuff  would  have  cried  out  against 
such  sudden  and  painful  declension.  But  Katherine,  happily 
both  for  herself  and  for  those  about  her,  waking  even  from 
dreams  of  noble  and  far-reaching  attainment,  waked  with 
not  only  her  wits,  but  her  heart,  in  steady  action.  Yet 
she  in  nowise  went  back  on  the  revelation  that  had  been 
vouchsafed  to  her.  It  was  in  nowise  disqualified  or  rendered 
suspect,  because  the  gamut  of  human  emotion  proved  to  have 
more  extended  range  and  more  jarring  discords  than  she  had 
yet  reckoned  with.  Her  mind  was  large  enough  to  make  room 
for  novel  experience  in  sorrow,  as  well  as  in  joy,  retaining  the 
while  its  poise  and  sanity.  Therefore,  recognising  a  new  phase 
in  the  development  of  her  child,  she,  without  hesitation  or 
regret  of  self-love  for  the  disturbance  of  her  own  gladness,  braced 
herself  to  meet  it.  His  pride  had  been  wounded — somehow, 
she  knew  not  how — to  the  very  quick.  And  the  smart  of  that 
wound  was  too  shrewd,  as  yet,  for  any  precious  balms  of 
articulate  tenderness  to  soothe  it.  She  must  give  it  time  to 
heal  a  little,  meanwhile  setting  herself  scrupulously  to  respect 
his  dark  humour,  meet  his  pride  with  pride,  his  calm  with  at 
least  equal  calmness. 

She  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  end  of  the  table,  and  settled 
herself  to  listen  quite  composedly. 

"It  will  be  well,  dearest,"  she  said,  "that  you  should  explain 
to  me  clearly  what  has  happened.  To  do  so  may  avert  possible 
complications." 

Richard's  hands  paused  among  the  papers.  He  regarded 
Lady  Calmady  reflectively,  not  without  a  grudging  admiration. 
But  an  evil  spirit  possessed  him,  a  necessity  of  mastery — in- 
evitable  reaction    from    recently  endured    humiliation  —  which 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  361 

provoked  him  to  measure  his  strength  against  hers.  He  needed 
a  sacrifice  to  propitiate  his  anger.  That  sacrifice  must  be  in 
some  sort  a  human  one.  So  he  dehberately  pulled  the  tall 
lamp  nearer,  and  swung  his  chair  round  sideways,  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  table,  with  the  result  that  the  light  rested  on  his 
face.  It  did  more.  It  rested  upon  his  body,  upon  his  legs  and 
feet,  disclosing  the  extent  of  their  deformity. 

Involuntarily  Katherine  shrank  back.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  struck  her.  Morally,  indeed,  he  had  struck  her,  for  there 
was  a  cynical  callousness  in  this  disclosure,  in  this  departure 
from  his  practice  of  careful  and  self-respecting  concealment. 
Meanwhile  Richard  watched  her,  as,  shrinking,  her  eyelids 
drooped  and  quivered. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  quietly  and  imperatively. — And  when, 
not  without  perceptible  effort,  she  again  raised  her  eyes  to  his, 
he  went  on : — "  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  will  be  well  for 
me  to  explain  with  a  view  to  averting  possible  complications. 
It  has  become  necessary  that  we  should  clearly  understand  one 
another — at  least  that  you,  my  dear  mother,  should  understand 
my  position  fully  and  finally.  We  have  been  too  nice,  you  and 
I,  heretofore,  and,  the  truth  being  very  far  from  nice,  have 
expended  much  trouble  and  ingenuity  in  our  efforts  to  ignore 
it.  We  went  up  to  London  in  the  fond  hope  that  the  world 
at  large  would  support  us  in  our  self-deception.  So  it  did,  for 
a  time.  But,  being  in  the  main  composed  of  very  fairly 
honest  and  sensible  persons,  it  has  grown  tired  of  sentimental 
lying,  of  helping  us  to  bury  our  heads  ostrich-like  in  the  sand. 
It  has  gone  over  to  the  side  of  truth — that  very  far  from  flatter- 
ing or  pretty  truth  to  which  I  have  just  alluded — with  this  result, 
among  others,  that  my  engagement  has  come  to  an  abrupt  and 
really  rather  melodramatic  conclusion." 

He  paused. 

"Go  on,  Richard,"  Lady  Calmady  said,  "  I  am  listening." 

He  drew  himself  up,  sitting  very  erect,  keeping  his  eyes 
steadily  fixed  on  her,  speaking  steadily  and  coldly,  though  his 
lips  twitched  a  little. 

"  Lady  C(Mistance  did  me  the  honour  to  call  on  me  last 
night,  rather  later  than  this,  absenting  herself  in  the  very  thick 
of  Lady  Louisa  Barking's  hall  for  that  purpose." 

Katherine  moved  slightly,  h<r  dress  rustled. 

"Yes — considering  her  character  and  her  training  it  was  a 
rather  surprising  dhnarche  on  her  part,  and  bore  convincing 
testimony  to  her  agitation  of  mind." 

"  Did  she  come  alone  ?  " 


362  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  lapsed  into  an  easier  position. 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !  "  he  said.  "  Allowing  for  the  desperation 
which  dictated  her  proceedings,  they  were  carried  out  in  a 
very  regular  manner,  with  a  praiseworthy  regard  for  appear- 
ances. Lady  Constance  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  very  sweet  person. 
She  is  perfectly  modest  and  has  an  unusual  regard — as  women 
go — for  honour  and  duty — as  women  understand  them." — Again 
his  voice  took  on  that  rasping  quality.  "  She  brought  a  friend, 
a  young  lady,  with  her.  Fortunately  there  was  no  occasion  for 
me  to  speak  to  her — she  had  the  good  taste  to  efface  herself 
during  our  interview.  But  I  saw  her  in  the  hall  afterwards.  I 
shall  always  remember  that  very  distinctly.  So,  I  imagine,  will 
she.  Then  Lord  Shotover  waited  outside  with  the  carriage. 
Oh  !  believe  me,  admitting  its  inherent  originality,  the  affair  was 
conducted  with  an  admirable  regard  for  appearances." 

Again  the  regular  flow  of  Richard's  speech  was  broken.  His 
throat  had  gone  very  dry. 

"  Lady  Constance  appealed  to  me  in  extremely  moving  terms, 
articulate  and  otherwise,  to  set  her  free." 

"  To  set  her  free — and  upon  what  grounds  ?  " 

"  Upon  the  rather  crude,  but  pre-eminently  sensible  grounds, 
my  dear  mother,  that  after  full  consideration,  she  found  the  bid 
was  not  high  enough." 

"  Indeed,"  Katherine  said. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  dear  mother,"  Richard  repeated.  "  Does 
that  surprise  you?  It  quite  ceased  to  surprise  me,  when  she 
pointed  out  the  facts  of  the  case.  For  she  was  touchingly 
sincere.  I  respected  her  for  that.  The  position  was  an  un- 
gracious one  for  her.  She  has  a  charming  nature,  and  really 
wanted  to  spare  me  just  as  much  as  was  possible  along  with 
the  gaining  of  her  cause.  Her  gift  of  speech  is  limited,  you 
know  ;  but  then  no  degree  of  eloquence  or  diplomacy  could  have 
rendered  that  which  she  had  to  say  agreeable  to  my  self-esteem. 
Oh  !  on  the  whole  she  did  it  very  well,  very  conclusively." 

Richard  raised  his  head,  pausing  a  moment.  Again  that  dry- 
ness of  the  throat  checked  his  utterance.  And  then,  recalling 
the  scene  of  the  past  night,  a  great  wave  of  unhappiness,  pure 
and  simple,  of  immense  disappointment,  immense  self-disgust 
broke  over  him.  His  anger,  his  outraged  pride,  came  near 
being  swamped  by  it.  He  came  near  losing  his  bitter  self- 
control  and  crying  aloud  for  help.  But  he  mastered  the  in- 
clination, perhaps  unfortunately,  and  continued  speaking. 

"  Yes,  decidedly,  with  the  exception  of  Ludovic,  that  family 
do  not  possess  ready  tongues,  yet  they  contrive  to  make  their 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  363 

meaning  pretty  plain  in  the  end.  I  have  just  driven  over  from 
Whitney,  and  am  fresh  from  a  fine  example  of  eventual  plain 
speaking  from  that  excellent  father  of  the  family,  Lord  Fallow- 
feild.  It  was  instructive.  For  the  main  thing,  after  all,  as  we 
must  both  agree,  mother,  is  to  understand  oneself  clearly  and 
to  make  oneself  clearly  understood.  And  in  this  respect  you 
and  I,  I'm  afraid,  have  failed  a  good  deal.  Blinded  by  our  own 
fine  egoism  we  have  even  failed  altogether  to  understand  others. 
Lady  Constance,  for  instance,  possesses  very  much  more  character 
than  it  suited  us  to  credit  her  with." 

"You  are  harsh,  dearest,"  Katherine  murmured,  and  her  lips 
trembled. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  only  said  good-bye  to 
lying.  Can  you  honestly  deny,  my  dear  mother,  that  the  whole 
affair  was  just  one  of  convenience  ?  I  told  you — it  strikes  me 
now  as  a  rather  brutally  primitive  announcement — that  I  wanted 
a  wife  because  I  wanted  a  son — a  son  to  prove  to  me  the  entirety 
of  my  own  manhood,  a  son  to  give  me  at  second  hand  certain 
obvious  pleasures  and  satisfactions  which  I  am  debarred,  as  you 
know,  from  obtaining  at  first  hand.  You  engaged  to  find  me  a 
bride.  Poor,  little  Lady  Constance  Quayle,  unluckily  for  her, 
appeared  to  meet  our  requirements,  being  pretty  and  healthy, 
and  too  innocent  and  undeveloped  to  suspect  the  rather  mean 
advantage  we  proposed  to  take  of  her. — \Vhat?  I  know  it 
sounds  rather  gross  stated  thus  plainly.  But,  the  day  of  lies 
being  over,  dare  you  deny  it  ? — Well  then,  we  proceeded  to 
traffic  for  this  desirable  bit  of  young  womanhood,  of  pro- 
spective maternity, — to  buy  her  from  such  of  her  relations  as 
were  perverted  enough  to  countenance  the  transaction,  just  as 
shamelessly  as  though  we  had  gone  into  the  common  bazaar, 
after  the  manner  of  the  cynical  East,  and  bargained  for  her,  poor 
child,  in  fat-tailed  sheep  or  cowries.  Doesn't  it  appear  to  you 
almost  incredible,  almost  infamous  that  we — you  and  I,  mother 
— should  have  done  this  thing?  'J'lie  price  we  offered  seemed 
sufficient  to  some  of  her  people — not  to  all,  I  have  learned  that 
past  forgetting  to-day,  thanks  to  Lord  Fallowfeild's  thick-headed, 
blundering  veracity.  But,  thank  Heaven,  she  had  more  heart, 
more  sensibility,  more  self-respect,  more  decency,  than  we 
allowed  for.  She  plucked  up  spirit  enough  to  refuse  to  be 
bought  and  sold  like  a  pedigree  filly  or  heifer.  I  think  that 
was  rath<r  heroic,  considering  her  traditions  and  the  pressure 
which  had  been  brought  to  bear  to  keep  her  silent.  I  can  only 
honour  and  reverence  her  for  coming  to  tell  me  frankly,  though 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  that  she  preferred  a  man  of  no  particular 


564  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

position  or  fortune,  hut  with  the  ordinary  complement  of  Hmbs, 
to  Brockhurst,  and  the  house  in  London,  and  my  forty  to  forty- 
five  thousand  a  year,  plus  " — 

Richard  laughed  savagely,  leaning  forward,  spreading  out 
his  arms. 

"  Well,  my  dear  mother, — since,  as  I  say,  the  day  of  lies  is 
over, — plus  the  remnant  of  a  human  being  you  may  see  here,  at 
this  moment,  if  you  will  only  have  the  kindness  to  look  ! " 

At  first  Katherine  had  listened  in  mute  surprise,  bringing  her 
mind,  not  without  difiiculty,  into  relation  to  the  immediate  and 
the  present.  Then  watchful  sympathy  had  been  aroused,  then 
anxiety,  then  tenderness,  denying  itself  expression  since  the  time 
for  it  was  not  yet  ripe.  But  as  the  minutes  lengthened  and  the 
flow  of  Richard's  speech  not  only  continued,  but  gained  in 
volume  and  in  force,  sympathy,  anxiety,  tenderness,  were  merged 
in  an  emotion  of  ever-deepening  anguish,  so  that  she  sat  as  one 
who  contemplates,  spell -bound,  a  scene  of  veritable  horror. 
From  regions  celestial  to  regions  terrestrial  she  had  been  hurried 
with  rather  dislocating  suddenness.  But  her  sorry  journey  did 
not  end  there.  For  hardly  were  her  feet  planted  on  solid  earth 
again,  than  the  demand  came  that  she  should  descend  still 
further — to  regions  sub-terrestrial,  regions  frankly  infernal.  And 
this  descent  to  hell,  though  rapid  to  the  point  of  astonishment, 
was  by  no  means  easy.  Rather  was  it  violent  and  remorseless — 
a  driving  as  by  reiterated  blows,  a  rude,  merciless  dragging 
onward  and  downward.  Yet,  even  so,  for  all  the  anguish  and 
shame — as  of  unseemly  exposure — the  perversion  of  her  inten- 
tion and  action,  the  scorn  so  ruthlessly  poured  upon  her,  it  was 
less  of  herself,  the  compelled,  than  of  Richard,  the  compelling, 
that  she  thought.  For  even  while  his  anger  thus  drove  and 
dragged  her,  he  himself  was  tortured  in  the  flame  far  below — so 
it  seemed,  and  that  constituted  the  finest  sting  of  her  agony — 
beyond  her  power  to  reach  or  help.  She,  after  all,  but  stood  on 
the  edge  of  the  crater,  watching.  He  fought,  right  down  in  the 
molten  waves  of  it — fought  with  himself,  too,  more  fiercely  even 
than  he  fought  with  her.  So  that  now,  as  years  ago  waiting  outside 
the  red  drawing-room  hearing  the  stern,  peremptory  tones  of  the 
surgeons,  the  moan  of  unspeakable  physical  pain,  the  grating  of 
a  saw,  picturing  the  dismemberment  of  the  living  body  she  so 
loved,  Katherine  was  tempted  to  run  a  little  mad  and  beat  her 
beautiful  head  against  the  wall.  But  age,  while  taking  no  jot  or 
tittle  from  the  capacity  of  suffering,  still,  in  sane  and  healthy 
natures,  brings  a  certain  steadiness  to  the  brain  and  coolness  to 
the  blood.     Therefore  Katherine  sat  very  still  and  silent,  her 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  365 

sweet  eyes  half  closed,  her  spirit  bowed  in  unspoken  prayer. 
Surely  the  all-loving  God,  who,  but  a  brief  hour  ago,  had  vouch- 
safed her  the  fair  vision  of  the  delight  of  her  youth,  would  ease 
his  torment  and  spare  her  son  ? 

And,  all  the  while,  outward  nature  remained  reposeful  and 
gracious  in  aspect  as  ever.  The  churring  of  the  night-hawks,  the 
occasional  bark  of  the  fox  in  the  Warren,  the  song  of  the  answer- 
ing nightingales,  wandered  in  at  the  open  casements.  And,  along 
with  these,  came  the  sweetness  of  the  beds  of  wild  thyme  from 
the  grass  slopes,  and  the  rich,  languid  scent  of  the  blossom  of 
the  little,  round-headed,  orange  trees  set,  in  green  tubs,  below  the 
carven  guardian  griffins  on  the  flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  the 
main  entrance.  That  which  had  been  lovely,  continued  lovely 
still.  And,  therefore  perhaps, — she  could  hope  it  even  amid  the 
fulness  of  her  anguish, — the  gates  of  hell  might  stand  open  to 
ascending  as  well  as  descending  feet ;  and  so  that  awful  road  might 
at  last — at  last — be  retraced  by  this  tormented  child  of  hers, 
whom,  though  he  railed  against  her,  sh6  still  supremely  loved. 

But  Richard,  whether  actually  or  intentionally  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say,  misinterpreted  and  resented  her  silence  and 
apparent  calm.  He  waited  for  a  time,  his  eyes  fastened  upon 
her  half-averted  face.  Then  he  picked  up  one  of  the  remaining 
packets  from  the  table,  tore  off  the  wrapper,  glanced  at  the 
contents,  stretched  out  his  left  arm  holding  the  said  contents 
suspended  over  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"Yes,  it  is  evident,"  he  declared,  "even  you  do  not  care  to 
look  !  Well,  then,  must  you  not  admit  that  you  and  I  have  been 
guilty  of  an  extravagance  of  fatuous  folly,  and  worse,  in  seriously 
proposing  that  a  well-born,  sensitive  girl  should  not  only  look 
at,  habitually  and  closely,  but  take  for  all  her  chance  in  life  a 
crippled  dwarf  like  me — an  anomaly,  a  human  curiosity,  a  creature 
so  unsightly  that  it  must  be  carried  about  like  any  baby-in-arms 
lest  its  repulsive  ungainliness  should  sicken  the  bystanders  if, 
leaving  the  shelter  of  a  railway-rug  and  an  arm-chair,  it  tries — 
unhajipy  brute — to  walk? — Oh!  I'm  not  angry  with  her.  I 
don't  blame  her.  I'm  not  surprised.  I  agrtc  with  her  down  to 
the  ground.  I  symjjathise  and  comprehend — no  man  more.  I 
told  her  so  last  night — only  amazed  at  the  insane  egoism  that 
could  ever  have  induced  me  to  view  the  mailer  in  any  olher 
light.  Women  are  generally  disjiosed  to  be  hard  on  one  another. 
But  if  you,  my  dear  molhcr,  should  be  in  any  degree  tempted  to 
be  hard  on  Constance  Quayle,  I  beg  you  to  consider  your  own 
engagement,  your  own  marriage,  my  father's" — 

Here  Katherine  interrupted  him,  rising  in  sudden  revolt. 


365  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"No,  no,  Richard,"  she  said,  "that  is  more,  my  dear,  than  I 
can  either  permit  or  can  bear.  If  you  have  any  sort  of  mercy 
left  in  you,  do  not  bring  your  father's  name,  and  that  which  Ues 
between  him  and  me,  into  this  hideous  conversation." 

'JMie  young  man  looked  hard  at  her,  and  then  opening  his 
hand,  let  the  pieces  of  torn  paper  flutter  down  into  the  basket. 
It  was  done  with  a  singularly  measured  action,  symbolic  of 
casting  off  some  last  tie,  severing  some  last  link,  which  bound 
his  life  and  his  allegiance  to  his  companion. 

"Yes,  exactly,"  he  said.  "As  I  expected,  the  day  of  lying 
being  over,  you  as  good  as  own  it  an  outrage  to  your  taste,  and 
your  affections,  that  so  frightful  a  thing,  as  I  am,  should  venture 
to  range  itself  alongside  your  memories  of  your  husband.  Out 
of  your  own  mouth  are  you  judged,  my  dear  mother.  And,  if  I 
am  thus  to  you,  upon  whom,  after  all,  I  have  some  natural  claim, 
what  must  I  be  to  others  ?     Think  of  it !     What  indeed  !  " 

Katherine  made  no  attempt  to  answer.  Perception  of  the 
grain  of  truth  which  seasoned  the  vast,  the  glaring,  injustice  of 
his  accusations  unnerved  her.  His  speech  was  ingeniously  cruel. 
His  humour  such,  that  it  was  vain  to  protest.  And  the  hopeless- 
ness of  it  all  affected  her  to  the  point  of  physical  weakness.  She 
moved  across  the  room,  intending  to  gain  the  door  and  go,  for 
it  seemed  to  her  the  limit  of  her  powers  of  endurance  had  been 
reached.  But  her  strength  would  not  carry  her  so  far.  She 
stumbled  on  the  upturned  corner  of  the  shining,  tiger-skin  rug, 
recovered  herself  trembling,  and  laid  hold  of  the  high,  narrow, 
marble  shelf  of  the  chimney-piece  for  support.  She  must  rest  a 
little  lest  her  strength  should  wholly  desert  her,  and  she  should 
fall  before  reaching  the  door. 

Behind  her,  within  the  circle  of  lamplight,  Richard  remained, 
still  sorting,  tearing,  flinging  away  that  which  remained  of  the 
pile  of  papers.  This  deft,  persistent  activity  of  his,  in  its  mixture 
of  purpose  and  abstraction,  was  agitating — seeming,  to  Katherine's 
listening  ears,  as  though  it  might  go  on  endlessly,  until  not  only 
these  waste  papers,  but  all  and  everything  within  his  reach, 
things  spiritual,  things  of  the  heart,  duties,  obligations,  gracious 
and  tender  courtesies,  as  well  as  things  merely  material,  might 
be  thus  relentlessly  scrutinised,  judged  worthless,  rent  asunder 
and  cast  forth.  What  would  be  spared  she  wondered,  what  left  ? 
And,  when  the  work  of  destruction  was  completed,  what  would 
follow  next? — Bracing  herself,  she  turned,  purposing  to  close 
the  interview  by  some  brief  pleading  of  indisposition  and  to 
escape.  But,  as  she  did  so,  the  sound  of  tearing  ceased. 
Richard  slipped  down  from  his  place  at  the  writing-table,  and 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  367 

shuffling  across  the  room,  flung  himself  into  the  long,  low 
arm-chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"  I  don't  want  to  detain  you  for  an  unreasonable  length  of 
time,  mother,"  he  said.  "  We  understand  each  other  in  the 
main,  I  think,  and  that  without  subterfuge  or  self-deception  at 
last.  But  there  are  details  to  be  considered  ;  and,  as  I  leave  here 
early  to-morrow  morning,  I  think  you'll  feel  with  me  it's  desirable 
we  should  have  our  talk  out.  There  are  a  good  many  eventu- 
alities for  which  it's  only  reasonable  and  prudent  to  make 
provision  on  the  eve  of  an  indefinitely  long  absence.  Practi- 
cally a  good  many  people  are  dependent  on  me,  one  way  and 
another,  and  I  don't  consider  it  honourable  to  leave  their  affairs 
at  loose  ends,  however  uncertain  my  own  future  may  be." 

Richard's  voice  had  still  that  rasping  quality,  while  his 
bearing  was  instinct  with  a  coldly  dominating,  and  almost 
aggressive,  force.  Katherine,  though  little  addicted  to  fear,  felt 
strangely  shaken,  strangely  alienated  by  the  dead  weight  of  the 
personality,  by  perception  of  the  innate  and  tremendous  vigour, 
of  this  being  to  whom  she  had  given  birth.  She  had  imagined, 
specially  during  the  last  few  months  of  happy  and  intimate 
companionship,  that  if  ever  mother  knew  her  child,  she  knew 
Richard — through  and  through.  But  it  appeared  she  had  been 
mistaken.  For  here  was  a  new  Richard,  at  once  terrible  and 
magnificent,  regarding  whom  she  could  predicate  nothing  with 
certainty.  He  defied  her  tenderness,  he  outpaced  her  imagina- 
tion, he  paralysed  her  will.  Between  his  thoughts,  desires, 
intentions,  and  hers,  a  blind  blank  space  had  suddenly  intruded 
itself,  impenetrable  to  her  thought.  In  person  he  was  here  close 
beside  her,  in  mind  he  was  despairingly  far  away.  And  to  this  last, 
not  only  his  words,  but  his  manner,  his  expression,  his  singular, 
yet  sombre  beauty,  bore  convincing  testimony.  He  had  matured 
with  an  almost  unnatural  rapidity,  leaving  her  far  behind.  In  his 
presence  she  felt  diffident,  mentally  insecure,  even  as  a  child. 

She  remained  standing,  holding  tightly  to  the  narrow  ledge 
of  the  mantelpiece.  She  felt  dazed  and  giddy  as  in  face  of  some 
upheaval,  some  cataclysm,  of  nature.  In  relation  to  her  son  she 
was  conscious,  in  truth,  that  her  whole  world  had  suffered 
shipwreck. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Dickie  ? "  she  asked  at  last  very 
simply. 

"  Anywhere  and  everywhere  where  amusement,  or  even  the 
semblance  of  it,  is  to  be  had,"  he  answered. — "Do  you  wish  to 
know  how  long  I  shall  be  away?  Just  precisely  as  long  as 
amusement  in  any  form  offers  itself,  and  as  my  power  of  being 


368  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

amused  remains  to  me.  This  strikes  you  as  slightly  ignoble  ?  I 
am  afraid  that's  a  point,  my  dear  mother,  upon  which  I  am 
supremely  indifierent.  You  and  I  have  posed  rather  extensively 
on  the  exalted  side  of  things  so  far,  have  strained  at  gnats  and 
finished  up  by  swallowiug  a  remarkably  full-grown  camel.  This 
whole  business  of  my  proposed  marriage  has  been  anything  but 
graceful,  when  looked  at  in  the  common-sense  way  in  which  most 
people,  of  necessity,  look  at  it.  Lord  Fallowfeild  appealed  to 
me  against  myself — which  appeared  to  me  slightly  humorous — as 
one  man  of  the  world  to  another.  That  was  an  eye-opener.  It 
was  likewise  a  profitable  lesson.  I  promptly  laid  it  to  heart. 
And  it  is  exclusively  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  of  the 
world  that  I  propose  to  regard  myself,  and  my  circumstances, 
and  my  personal  peculiarities,  in  future.  So,  to  begin  with, 
if  you  please,  from  this  time  forth,  we  put  aside  all  question  of 
marriage  in  my  case.  We  don't  make  any  more  attempts  to  buy 
innocent  and  well-bred,  young  girls,  inviting  them  to  condone  my 
obvious  disabilities  in  consideration  of  my  little  title  and  my 
money." 

Richard  ceased  to  look  at  Lady  Calmady.  He  looked  away 
through  the  open  window  into  the  serene  sky  of  the  summer 
night,  a  certain  hunger  in  his  expression  not  altogether  pleasant 
to  witness. 

"  Fortunately,"  he  continued,  with  something  between  a  laugh 
and  a  sneer,  "there  is  a  mighty  army  of  women — always  has 
been — who  don't  come  under  the  head  of  innocent,  young  girls, 
though  some  of  them  have  plenty  of  breeding  of  a  kind.  They 
attach  no  superstitious  importance  to  the  marriage  ceremony. 
My  position  and  money  may  obtain  me  consolations  in  their 
direction." 

Lady  Calmady  ceased  to  require  the  cold  support  of  the 
marble  mantelshelf. 

"  It  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  discuss  that  subject,  at  least, 
Richard,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  turned  his  head  again,  looking  full  at  her. 
And  again  the  distance  that  divided  her  from  him  became,  to 
her,  cruelly  apparent,  while  his  strength  begot  in  her  a  shrinking 
of  fear. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  can't  agree  with  you  there. 
It  is  inevitable  that  we  should  differ  in  the  future,  and  that  you 
should  frequently  disapprove.  I  can't  expect  you  to  emancipate 
yourself  from  prejudice,  as  I  am  already  emancipated.  I  am  not 
sure  I  even  wish  that.  Still,  whatever  the  future  may  bring  forth, 
of  this,  my  dear  mother,  I  am  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  369 

to-night,  so  that  you  shall  never  have  cause  to  charge  me  with 
lack  of  frankness  or  of  attempt  to  deceive  you." 

Yet,  at  the  moment,  the  poor  mother's  heart  cried  out  to  be 
deceived,  if  thereby  it  might  be  eased  a  little  of  suffering.  Then, 
a  nobler  spirit  prevailing  within  her,  Katherine  rallied  her  fortitude. 
Better  he  should  be  bound  to  her  even  by  cynical  avowal  of 
projected  vice,  than  not  bound  at  all.  Listening  now,  she  gained 
the  right — a  bitter  enough  right — to  command  a  measure  of 
his  confidence  in  those  still  darker  days  which,  as  she  apprehended, 
only  too  certainly  lay  ahead.     So  she  answered,  calmly  : — 

"  Go  on,  Richard.  As  you  say  we  may  differ  in  the  future. 
I  may  disapprove,  but  I  can  be  silent.  You  are  right.  It  is 
better  for  us  both  that  I  should  hear." 

And  once  more  the  young  man  was  compelled  to  yield  her  a 
grudging  admiration.     His  tone  softened  somewhat. 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  stand,  mother,"  he  said.  "  Our 
conversation  may  be  prolonged.  One  never  quite  knows  what 
may  crop  up.  You  will  be  overtired.  And  to-morrow,  when  I 
am  gone,  there  will  be  things  to  do." 

Lady  Calmady  drew  forward  the  chair  from  the  end  of  the 
writing-table.  Her  back  was  towards  the  lamp,  her  face  in 
shadow.  Of  this  she  was  glad.  In  a  degree  it  lessened  the 
strain.  The  sweet,  night  air,  coming  in  at  the  open  casements, 
fluttered  the  lace  on  her  bodice,  as  with  the  touch  of  a  light, 
cool  hand.  Of  this  she  was  glad  too.  It  was  refreshing,  and 
she  grew  increasingly  exhausted  and  physically  weak.  Richard 
observed  her,  not  without  solicitude. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  mother,"  he  said. 

But  Katherine  shook  her  head,  smiling  upon  him  with  misty 
eyes  and  lips  somewhat  tremulous. 

"I  am  always  well,"  she  replied.  "Only  to-night  it  has 
been  given  me  to  scale  heights  and  sound  opposing  depths, 
and  I  am  a  little  overcome  by  perplexity  and  by  surprise.  But 
what  does  that  signify?  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time — too  much 
probably — in  which  to  rest  and  range  my  ideas  when — you  are 
gone,  my  dearest." 

"  You  must  not  be  here  alone." 

"  Oh  no  !  People  will  visit  me,  no  doubt,  animated  by  kindly 
wishes  to  lessen  my  solitude,"  she  answered,  still  smiling.  Re- 
membrance of  Hf)noria  St.  Quenlin's  letter  came  to  her  mind. 
Could  it  be  that  the  girl  had  some  inkling  of  what  was  in  store 
for  her,  and  that  this  had  inspired  the  slight  over-warmth  of  her 
protestations  of  affection  ? — "  Honoria  would  always  be  ready  to 
come,  should  I  ask  her,"  she  said. 

24 


370  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

All  solicitude  passed  from  Richard's  expression,  all  softening 
from  his  tone. 

"By  all  means  ask  her.  That  would  cap  the  climax,  and 
round  the  irony  of  the  situation  to  admiration  ! " 

"Indeed?  Why?"  Katherine  inquired,  painfully  impressed 
by  the  renewed  bitterness  of  his  manner. 

"  If  you're  fond  of  her  that  is  convincingly  sufficient.  She 
and  I  have  never  been  very  sympathetic,  but  that's  a  detail.  I 
shall  be  gone.  Therefore  pray  have  her,  or  anybody  else  you 
happen  to  fancy,  so  long  as  you  do  have  someone.  You 
mustn't  be  here  alone." 

"Julius  remains  faithful  through  all  chances  and  changes." 

"  But  I  imagine  even  Julius  has  sufficient  social  sense  to 
perceive  that  faithfulness  may  be  a  little  out  of  place  at  this 
juncture.  At  least  I  sincerely  hope  he'll  perceive  it,  for  other- 
wise he  will  have  to  be  made  to  do  so — and  that  will  be  a 
nuisance." 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,  what  are  you  implying  ? "  Lady  Calmady 
exclaimed.  "  By  what  strange  and  unlovely  thoughts  are  you 
possessed  to-night  ?  " 

"I  am  learning  to  look  at  things  as  the  average  man  of  the 
world  looks  at  them,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "  We  have  been  too 
refined,  you  and  I,  to  be  self-critical,  with  the  consequence 
that  we  have  allowed  ourselves  a  considerable  degree  of  latitude 
in  many  directions.  Julius'  permanent  residence  here  ranks 
among  the  fine-fanciful  disregardings  of  accepted  proprieties  with 
which  we  have  indulged  ourselves.  But  spades  are  to  be  called 
spades  in  future — at  least  by  me.  So,  for  the  very  same  reason 
that  I  go  forth,  like  the  average  man  of  the  world,  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  sin  for  a  season,  do  I  object  to  Julius,  or  any  other 
man,  being  your  guest  during  my  absence,  unless  you  have  some 
woman  of  your  own  position  in  life  living  here  with  you.  The 
levels  in  social  matters  have  changed,  once  and  for  all.  I  have 
come  to  a  sane  mind  and  renounced  the  eccentric  subterfuges 
and  paltry  hypocrisies,  by  means  of  which  we  have  attempted, 
you  and  I,  to  keep  disagreeable  facts  at  bay.  Truth,  bare  and 
unabashable,  is  the  only  goddess  I  worship  henceforth." 

He  leaned  forward,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  His  manner  was  harsh  still.  But  all  coldness  had 
departed  from  it,  rather  did  a  white  heat  of  passion  consume 
him  dreadful  to  witness. 

"  Yes,  it  is  wisest  to  repeat  that,  so  that,  on  your  part,  there 
may  be  no  excuse  for  any  shadow  of  misapprehension.  The 
levels  have  altered.     The  old   ones   can  never  be  restored.     I 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP 


0/ 


want  to  have  you  grasp  this,  mother — swallow  it,  digest  it,  so  that 
it  passes  into  fibre  and  tissue  of  your  every  thought  about  me. 
For  an  acutely  unscientific,  an  ingeniously  unreasonable,  idea 
obtains  widely  among  respectable,  sentimental,  so-called  religious 
persons,  regarding  those  who  are  the  victims  of  disfiguring 
accident,  or,  like  myself,  are  physically  disgraced  from  birth. 
Because  we  have  been  deprived  of  our  natural  rights,  because 
we  have  so  abominably  little,  we  are  expected  to  be  slavishly 
grateful  for  the  contemptible  pittance  that  we  have.  Because, 
slothfully,  by  His  neglect,  or,  wantonly,  for  His  amusement,  the 
Creator  has  tortured  us,  maiming,  distorting  us,  setting  us  up  as 
a  laughing-stock  before  all  man  and  womankind — because  He 
has  played  a  ghastly  and  brutal  practical  joke  on  us,  fixing  the 
marks  of  low  comedy  in  our  living  flesh  and  bone — therefore  we, 
forsooth,  are  to  be  more  pious,  more  clean-living,  temperate,  and 
discreet  than  the  rest — to  bow  amiably  beneath  the  cross,  grate- 
fully to  kiss  the  rod  !  Those  irregularities  of  conduct  which  are 
smiled  at,  and  taken  for  granted,  in  a  man  made  after  the  normal, 
comely  fashion,  become  a  scandal  in  the  case  of  a  poor,  unhappy 
devil  like  me,  at  which  good  people  hold  up  their  hands  in 
horror.  Faugh  ! — I  tell  you  I'm  sick  of  such  cowardly  cant.  A 
pretty  example  the  Almighty's  set  me  of  justice  and  mercy  ! 
Handsome  encouragement  He  has  given  me  to  be  virtuous  and 
sober !  Much  I  have  for  which  to  praise  His  holy  name ! 
Arbitrarily,  without  excuse,  or  faintest  show  of  antecedent  reason, 
He  has  elected  to  curse.  And  the  curse  will  cling  forever  and 
ever,  till  they  lay  me  in  a  coffin  nearly  half  as  short  again  as  that 
of  any  other  man,  and  leave  the  hideousness  of  my  deformity  to 
be  obliterated  and  jmrged  at  last — eaten  away  by  the  worms  in 
the  dark." 

Richard  stretched  out  his  hands,  palms  upward. 

"  And  in  return  for  all  this  shall  I  bless  ?  No,  indeed — no, 
thank  you.  Not  even  towards  Cod  Almighty  Himself  will  I 
jjlay  the  part  of  lick-spittle  and  sycoi)haiit.  I  have  Ciuc  enough 
stuff  in  me,  let  alone  the  energy  begotten  by  the  flagrance  of 
His  injustice,  to  take  higher  grounds  with  Him  than  that.  I 
will  break  what  men  hold  to  be  His  laws,  wherever  and  whenever 
I  can — I  will  make  hay  of  His  so-called  natural  and  moral  order, 
just  as  often  as  I  get  the  chance.  I  will  curse,  and  again  curse, 
back." 

The  speaker's  voice  was  deep  and  resonant,  filling  the  whole 
room.  His  utterance  deliberate  and  unshaken.  His  face  dark 
with  the  malign  bi-aiity  of  implacable  hatred.  Hearing  him, 
seeing  him  thus,  Katherine  Calmady's  fortitude  forsook  her.     She 


372  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ceased  to  distinguish  or  discriminate.  Nature  gave  way.  She 
knelt  upon  the  floor  before  him,  her  hands  clasped,  tears 
coursing  down  her  cheeks.  But  of  her  attitude  and  aspect  she 
was  unconscious. 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "forgive  me!  Curse  me, 
my  dearest,  throw  all  the  blame  on  me,  my  dearest — I  accept 
it — not  on  God.  Only  try,  try  to  forgive  !  Forgive  me  for 
being  your  mother.  Forgive  me  that  I  ever  loved  and  married. 
P'orgive  me  the  intolerable  wrong  which,  all  unknowingly,  I  did 
you  before  your  birth.  I  humble  myself  before  you,  and  with 
reason.  For  I  am  the  cause  ;  I,  who  would  give  my  life  for  your 
happiness,  my  blood  for  your  healing,  a  thousand  times.  But 
through  all  these  years  I  have  done  my  poor  best  to  serve  you 
and  to  make  up.  The  hypocrisies  and  subterfuges  which  you 
lash  so  scornfully — and  rightly  perhaps — were  the  fruit  of  my 
overcare  for  you.  Rail  at  me.  I  deserve  it.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  faithless,  but  only  once  or  twice,  and  for  a  moment.  I  was 
faithless  towards  you  here,  in  the  garden  to-night.  But  then  I 
supposed  you  content.  Ah  1  I  hardly  know  what  I  say ! — Only 
rail  at  me,  my  beloved,  not  at  God.  And  then  try — try  not  to 
leave  me  in  anger.     Try,  before  you  go,  to  forgive  !  " 

Richard  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  head,  watching  her.  It  gave  him  the  strangest  sensation  to 
see  his  mother  kneeling  before  him  thus.  At  first  it  shocked 
him  almost  to  the  point  of  heated  protest,  as  against  a  thing 
unpermissible  and  indecorous.  Then,  the  devils  of  wounded  pride, 
of  anarchy,  and  of  revolt  asserting  themselves,  he  began  to  relish, 
to  be  appeased  by,  the  unseemly  sight.  Little  Lady  Constance 
Quayle,  and  all  that  of  which  she  was  the  symbol,  had  dis- 
appointed and  escaped  him.  But  here  was  a  woman,  worth  a 
dozen  Constance  Quayles,  in  beauty,  in  intellect,  and  in  heart, 
prostrate  before  him,  imploring  his  clemency  as  the  penitent 
implores  the  absolution  of  the  priest !  An  evil  gladness  took 
him  that  he  had  power  thus  to  subjugate  so  regal  a  creature. 
His  gluttony  of  inflicting  pain — since  he  himself  suffered — his 
gluttony  of  exercising  dominion — since  he  himself  had  been 
defied  and  defrauded — was  in  a  degree  satisfied.  His  arrogance 
was  at  once  reinforced  and  assuaged. 

"  It  is  absurd  to  speak  of  forgiveness,"  he  said  presently,  and 
slowly,  "as  it  is  absurd  to  speak  of  restitution.  These  are  mere 
words,  having  no  real  tally  in  fact.  We  appear  to  have  volition, 
but  actually  and  essentially  we  are  as  leaves  driven  by  the  wind. 
Where  it  blindly  drives,  there  we  blindly  go.  So  it  has  been 
from  the  beginning.     So  it  always  will  be.     In  the  last  twenty- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP         373 

four  hours  there  are  many  things  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in, 
and  among  them,  my  dear  mother,  is  human  responsibility." 

He  paused,  and  motioned  Lady  Calmady  towards  her  chair 
with  a  certain  authority. 

"  Therefore  calm  yourself,"  he  said.  "  Grieve  as  little  as  may 
be  about  all  this  matter,  and  let  us  talk  it  over  without  further 
emotion." 

He  waited  a  brief  space,  giving  her  time  to  recover  her  com- 
posure, and  then  continued  coldly,  with  a  careful  abstention 
from  any  show  of  feeling. 

"Let  us  clear  our  minds  of  cant,  and  go  forward  knowing 
that  there  is  really  neither  good  nor  evil.  For  these — even  as 
God  Himself,  whose  existence  I  treated  from  the  anthro- 
pomorphic standpoint  just  now,  so  as  to  supply  myself  with  a 
target  to  shoot  at,  a  windmill  at  which  to  tilt,  a  row  of  ninepins 
set  up  for  the  mere  satisfaction  of  knocking  them  down  again — 
these  are  plausible  delusions  invented  by  man,  in  the  vain  effort 
to  protect  himself  and  his  fellows  from  the  profound  sense  of 
loneliness,  and  impotence,  which  seizes  on  him  if  he  catches 
so  much  as  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  gross  comedy  of  human 
aspiration,  human  affection,  briefly  human  existence." 

But,  strive  as  he  might,  excitement  gained  on  Richard 
once  more,  for  young  blood  is  hot  and  gallops  masterfully  along 
the  veins,  specially  under  the  w^hip  of  real  or  imagined  disgrace. 
He  sat  upright,  grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  looking,  not 
at  his  mother,  but  away  into  the  deep  of  the  summer  night. 

"Perhaps  my  personal  peculiarities  confer  on  me  unusually 
acute  perception  of  the  inherent  grossness  of  the  human  comedy. 
I  propose  to  take  the  lesson  to  heart.  They  teach  me  not  to 
sacrifice  the  present  to  the  future ;  but  to  fling  away  ideals  like 
so  much  waste  paper,  and  just  take  that  which  I  can  immediately 
get.  They  tell  me  to  limit  my  horizon,  and  go  the  common  way 
of  common,  coarse-grained,  sensual  man — in  as  far  as  that  way 
is  possible  to  me — and  be  of  this  world  worldly.  And  so,  mother, 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  from  this  day  forth  I  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  not  only  in  thought,  but  in  conduct.  I  am  going  to 
have  just  all  that  my  money  and  position,  and  cvtn  this  vile 
deformity — for,  by  God,  I'll  use  that  too — what  people  won't  give 
for  love  they'll  give  for  curiosity — can  bring  mc  of  pleasure  and 
notoriety.  I  am  going  to  lay  hold  of  life  with  these  rather 
horribly  strong  arms  of  mine" —  he  looked  across  at  Lady 
Calmady  with  a  sneering  smile. — "  Strong  ?  "  he  repealed,  "  strong 
as  a  young  bull-ajjc's.  I  mean  to  tear  the  very  vitals  out  of 
living ;  to  tear  knowledge,   excitement,  intoxication,  out   of  it. 


374  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADV 

making  them,  by  right  of  conquest,  my  own.  I  will  compel 
existence  to  yield  me  all  that  it  yields  other  men,  and  more — 
because  my  senses  are  finer,  my  acquaintance  with  sorrow  more 
intimate,  my  quarrel  with  fortune  more  vital  and  more  just.  As 
I  cannot  have  a  wife,  I'll  have  mistresses.  As  I  cannot  have 
honest  love,  I'll  have  gratified  lust.  I  am  not  stupid.  I  shall 
not  follow  the  beaten  track.  My  imagination  has  been  stimu- 
lated into  rather  dangerous  activity  by  the  pre-natal  insult  put 
upon  me.  And  now  that  I  have  emancipated  myself,  I  propose 
to  apply  my  imagination  practically." 

The  young  man  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  again. 

"  There  ought  to  be  startling  results,"  he  said,  with  gloomy 
exultation.  "Don't  you  think  so,  mother?  There  should  be 
startling  results." 

Lady  Calmady  bowed  herself  together,  putting  her  hands  over 
her  eyes.  Then  raising  her  head,  she  managed  to  smile  at  him, 
though  very  sadly,  her  sweet  face  drawn  by  exhaustion  and 
marred  by  lately  shed  tears. 

"Ah  yes,  my  dearest,"  she  answered,  "no  doubt  the  results 
will  be  startling  ;  but  whether  any  sensible  increase  of  happiness, 
either  to  yourself  or  others,  will  be  counted  among  them  is  open 
to  question." 

Richard  laughed  bitterly. — "  I  shall  have  lived,  anyhow,"  he 
rejoined.  "Worn  out,  not  rusted  and  rotted  out — which, 
according  to  our  former  fine-fanciful  programme,  seemed  the 
only  probable  consummation  of  my  unlucky  existence." 

His  tone  changed,  becoming  quietly  businesslike  and  in- 
different. 

"  I  am  entering  horses  for  some  of  the  French  events,  and  I 
go  through  to  Paris  to-morrow  to  see  various  men  there  and 
make  the  necessary  arrangements.  I  shall  take  Chifney  with  me 
for  a  few  days.  But  the  stables  will  not  give  you  any  trouble. 
He  will  have  given  all  the  orders." 

"Very  well,"  Katherine  said  mechanically. 

"  Later  I  shall  go  on  to  Baden-Baden." 

Katherine  rallied  somewhat. 

"  Helen  de  Vallorbes  is  there,"  she  said,  not  without  a  trace 
of  her  former  pride. 

"Certainly  Helen  de  Vallorbes  is  there,"  he  answered. 
"That  is  why  I  go.  I  want  to  see  her.  It  is  inconsistent,  I 
admit,  for  Helen  remains  the  one  person  gloriously  untouched 
by  the  wreck  of  the  former  order  of  things.  Pray  let  there  be  no 
misconception  on  that  point.  She  belonged  to  the  ideal  order, 
she  belongs  to  it  still." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  375 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear  !  "  Katherine  almost  cried.  His  per- 
versity hurt  her  a  Httle  too  much  so  that  the  small,  upspringing 
flame  of  decent  pride  was  quenched. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "there  was  my  initial,  my  cardinal, 
mistake.  For  I  was  a  traitor  to  all  that  was  noblest  and  best  in 
me,  when  I  persuaded  myself,  and  weakly  permitted  you  to 
persuade  me,  that  a  loveless  marriage  is  better  than  a  love  in 
which  marriage  is  impossible, — that  Lady  Constance  Quayle, 
poor  little  soul,  bought,  paid  for,  and  my  admitted  property, 
could  fill  Helen's  place, — though  Helen  was — and  I  intend  her 
to  remain  so,  for  I  care  for  her  enough  to  hold  her  honour  as 
sacred  as  I  do  your  own — for  ever  inaccessible." 

Lady  Calmady  staggered  to  her  feet. 

"That  is  enough,  Richard,"  she  said.  "That  is  enough.  If 
you  have  more  to  say,  in  pity  leave  it  until  to-morrow." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  strangely. 

"You  are  ill,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,  I  am  only  broken-hearted,"  she  replied.  "  And  a 
broken  heart,  alas  1  never  killed  so  healthy  a  body  as  mine.  I 
shall  survive  this — and  more  perhaps.  God  knows.  Do  not  vex 
yourself  about  me,  Dickie. — Go,  live  your  life  as  it  seems  fit  to 
you.  I  have  not  the  will,  even  had  I  the  right,  to  restrain  you. 
And  meanwhile  I  will  be  the  steward  of  your  goods,  as,  long 
ago,  when  you  were  a  child  and  belonged  to  me  wholly.  You 
can  trust  me  to  be  faithful  and  discreet,  at  least  in  financial  and 
practical  matters.  If  you  ever  need  me,  I  will  come  even  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  And  should  the  desire  take  you  to  return, 
here  you  will  find  me. — And  so,  good-bye,  my  darling.  I  am 
foolishly  tired.  I  grow  light-headed,  and  dare  not  linger,  lest  in 
my  weakness  I  say  that  which  I  afterwards  regret." 

She  passed  to  the  door  and  went  out,  without  looking  back. 

Left  to  himself  Richard  Calmady  crossed  to  the  writing-table, 
swung  himself  up  into  the  revolving  chair,  and  remained  there 
sorting  and  docketing  papers  far  into  the  night.  But  once, 
stooping,  with  long-armed  adroitness,  to  unlock  the  lowest  drawer 
of  the  table,  a  madness  of  disgust  towards  the  unsightliness  of 
his  own  person  seized  on  and  tore  him. 

"  O  God,  God,  God  ! "  he  cried  aloud,  in  the  extremity  of 
his  passion,  "why  hast  Thou  made  me  thus?" 

And  to  that  question,  as  yet,  there  was  no  answer,  though  it 
rang  afar  over  the  sleeping  park,  and  up  to  the  clear  shining  stars 
of  the  profound  and  peaceful  summer  night. 


BOOK   V 

RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH    THE    READER    IS    COURTEOUSLY    ENTREATED   TO    GROW 
OLDER    BY      THE     SPACE     OF 
SAIL    SOUTHWARD    HO  !    AWAY 


OLDER    BY      THE     SPACE     OF    SOME      FOUR    YEARS,     AND    TO 


THE  south-easterly  wind  came  fresh  across  the  bay  from  the 
crested  range  of  the  Monte  Sant'  Angelo.  The  blossoms 
of  the  Judas-trees,  breaking  from  the  smooth  grey  stems  and 
branches — on  which  they  perch  so  quaintly — fell  in  a  red-mauve 
shower  upon  the  slabs  of  the  marble  pavement,  upon  the  mimic 
waves  of  the  fountain  basin,  and  upon  the  clustering  curls,  and 
truncated  shoulders,  of  the  bust  of  Homer  standing  in  the  shade 
of  the  grove  of  cypress  and  ilex  which  sheltered  the  square,  high- 
lying  hill-garden,  at  this  hour  of  the  morning,  from  the  fierceness 
of  the  sun.  They  floated  as  far  even  as  the  semicircular  steps 
of  the  pavilion  on  the  extreme  right — the  leaded  dome  of  which 
showed  dark  and  livid  on  the  one  side,  white  and  glistering 
on  the  other,  against  the  immense  and  radiant  panorama  of 
mountain,  sea,  and  sky. 

The  garden,  its  fountains,  neatly  clipped  shrubs,  and  formal 
paved  alleys,  was  backed  by  a  large  villa  of  the  square,  flat-roofed 
order  common  to  southern  Italy.  The  record  of  its  age  had 
recently  suffered  modification  by  application  of  a  coat  of  stucco, 
of  a  colour  intermediate  between  faint  lemon-yellow  and  pearl- 
grey,  and  by  the  renovation  of  the  fine  arabesques — Pompeian  in 
character — decorating  the  narrow  interspaces  between  its  treble 
range  of  Venetian  shutters.  Otherwise  the  aspect  of  the  Villa 
Vallorbes  showed  but  small  alteration  since  the  year  when,  for 
a  few  socially  historic  weeks,  the  "glorious  Lady  Blessington," 
and  her  strangely  assorted  train,  condescended  to  occupy  it  prior 

376 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  377 

to  taking  up  their  residence  at  the  Palazzo  Belvedere  near  by. 
The  walls  were  sufficiently  massive  to  withstand  a  siege.  The 
windows  of  the  ground  floor,  set  in  deeply-hewn  ashlar  work, 
were  cross-barred  as  those  of  a  prison.  Above,  the  central 
windows  and  door  of  the  entresol  opened  on  to  a  terrace  of 
black  and  white  marble,  from  which,  at  either  end,  a  wide,  shallow- 
stepped,  curved  stairway  led  down  into  the  garden.  The  first 
floor  consisted  of  a  suite  of  noble  rooms,  each  of  whose  lofty 
windows  gave  on  to  a  balcony  of  wrought  ironwork,  very  ornate 
in  design.  The  topmost  storey,  immediately  below  the  painted 
frieze  of  the  parapet,  coincided  in  height  and  in  detail  with  the 
entresol. 

The  villa  was  superbly  situated  upon  an  advancing  spur  of 
hill ;  so  that,  looking  down  from  its  balconies,  looking  out  from 
between  the  pale  and  slender  columns  of  the  pavilion,  the  whole 
city  of  Naples  lay  revealed  below. — Naples,  that  bewildering 
union  of  modern  commerce  and  classic  association — its  domes,  its 
palms,  its  palaces,  its  crowded,  hoarse-shouting  quays,  its  theatres 
and  giant  churches,  its  steep  and  filthy  lanes  black  with  shadow, 
its  reeking  markets,  its  broad,  sun-scorched  piazzas,  its  glittering, 
blue  waters,  its  fringing  forest  of  tall  masts,  and  innumerable, 
close-packed  hulls  of  ocean-going  ships  !  Naples,  city  of  glaring 
contrasts — heaven  of  rascality,  hell  of  horses,  unrivalled  all  the 
western  world  over  for  natural  beauty,  for  spiritual  and  moral 
grossness !  Naples,  breeding,  teeming,  laughing,  fighting,  fester- 
ing, city  of  music,  city  of  fever  and  death  !  Naples,  at  once 
abominable  and  enchanting  —  city  to  which,  spite  of  noise, 
stenches,  cruelty  and  squalor,  those  will  return,  of  necessity,  and 
return  again,  whose  imagination  has  once  been  taken  captive  in 
the  meshes  of  her  many-coloured  net. 

And  among  the  captives  of  Naples,  on  the  brilliant  morning 
in  question  in  the  early  spring  of  the  year  1871,  open-eared  and 
open-eyed  to  its  manifest  and  manifold  incongruities,  relishing 
alike  the  superficial  beauty  and  underlying  bestiality  of  it,  was 
very  certainly  Helen  de  Vallorbcs.  Several  years  had  elapsed 
since  she  had  visited  this  fascinating  locality  ;  and  she  could 
congratulate  herself  upon  conditions  adapted  to  a  more  intimate 
and  comprehensive  acijuaintance  with  its  very  various  humours 
than  she  had  ever  enjoyed  before.  She  had  spent  more  than 
one  winter  here,  it  is  true,  immediately  subsequent  to  her 
marriage.  But  she  had  then  been  required  to  associate  ex- 
clusively with  the  members  of  her  husband's  family,  and  to  fill  a 
definite  position  in  the  aristocratic  society  of  the  place.  The 
tone  of  that  society  was  not  a  little   lax.     Yet,  being  notably 


378  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

defective  in  the  saving  grace  of  humour — as  to  the  feminine 
portion  of  it,  at  all  events — its  laxity  proved  sadly  deficient  in 
vital  interest.  The  fair  Neapolitans  displayed  as  small  intelli- 
gence in  their  intrigues  as  in  their  piety.  In  respect  of  both 
they  remained  ignorant,  prejudiced,  hopelessly  conventional. 
Their  noble  ancestresses  of  the  Renaissance  understood  and  did 
these  things  better — so  Helen  reflected.  She  found  herself  both 
bored  and  irritated.  She  feared  she  had  taken  up  her  residence 
in  southern  Italy  quite  three  centuries  too  late. 

But  all  that  was  in  the  past — heaven  be  praised  for  it !  Just 
now  she  was  her  own  mistress,  at  liberty — thanks  to  the  fortunes 
of  war — to  comport  herself  as  she  pleased  and  obey  any  caprice 
that  took  her.  The  position  was  ideal  in  its  freedom,  while  the 
intrinsic  value  of  it  was  enhanced  by  contrast  with  recent  dis- 
agreeable experiences.  For  the  alarms  and  deprivations  of  the 
siege  of  Paris  were  but  lately  over.  She  had  come  through  them 
unscathed  in  health  and  fortune.  Yet  they  had  left  their  mark. 
During  those  months  of  all-encompassing  disappointment  and 
disaster  the  eternal  laughter — in  which  she  trusted — had  rung 
harshly  sardonic,  to  the  breaking  down  of  self-confidence,  and 
light-hearted,  cynic  philosophy.  It  scared  her  somewhat.  It 
made  her  feel  old.  It  chilled  her  with  suspicion  of  the  actuality 
of  The  Four  Last  Things — death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell. 
The  power  of  a  merry  scepticism  waxed  faint  amid  the  scream  of 
shells  and  long-drawn,  murderous  crackle  of  the  mitrailleuse. 
Helen,  indeed,  became  actively  superstitious,  thereby  falling  low 
in  her  own  self-esteem.  She  took  to  frequenting  churches,  and 
spending  long,  still  days  with  the  nuns,  her  former  teachers,  within 
the  convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur.  Circumstances  so  worked  upon 
her  that  she  made  her  submission,  and  was  solemnly  and  duly 
received  back  into  the  fold  of  the  Church.  She  confessed  ardently, 
yet  with  certain  politic  reservations.  The  priest,  after  all,  is  but 
human.  It  is  only  charitable  to  be  considerate  of  his  feelings — 
so  she  argued — and  avoid  overburdening  his  conscience,  poor 
dear  man,  by  blackening  your  own  reputation  too  violently ! 
The  practice  of  religion  was  a  help — truly  it  was,  since  it  served 
to  pass  the  time.  And  then,  who  could  tell  but  that  it  might 
not  prove  really  useful  hereafter,  as,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
those  dread  Four  Last  Things  will  present  themselves  to  the 
mind  in  hours  of  depression  with  haunting  pertinacity.  It  is 
clearly  wise,  then,  to  be  on  the  safe  side  of  Holy  Church  in  these 
matters,  accepting  her  own  assertion  that  she  is  very  certainly  on 
•the  safe  side  of  the  Deity. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  her  pious  exercises,  Helen  de  Vallorbes 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  379 

found  existing  circumstances  excessively  disturbing  and  disquiet- 
ing. She  was  filled  with  an  immense  self-pity.  She  feared  her 
health  was  failing.  She  became  nervously  sensible  of  her  eight- 
and-twenty  years,  telling  herself  that  her  youth  and  the  glory  of  it 
had  departed.  She  wore  black  dresses,  rolled  bandages,  pulled 
lint.  Selecting  Mary  Magdalene  as  her  special  intercessor,  she 
made  a  careful  study  of  the  life  and  legends  of  that  saint.  This 
proved  stimulating  to  her  imagination.  She  proceeded  to  write 
a  little  one-act  drama  concerning  the  holy  woman's  dealings, 
subsequent  to  her  conversion,  quite  late  in  life  in  fact,  with 
such  as  survived  of  her  former  lovers.  The  dialogue  was  very 
moving  in  parts.  Helen  read  it  aloud  one  bleak  January  even- 
ing, by  the  light  of  a  single  candle,  to  her  friend  M.  Paul 
Destoumelle,  poet  and  novelist — with  whom  just  then,  by  her 
own  desire,  her  relations  were  severely  platonic — and  they  both 
wept.  The  application,  though  delicate,  was  obvious.  And 
those  tears  appeared  to  lay  the  dust  of  so  many  pleasant  sins, 
and  promise  fertilisation  of  so  heavy  a  crop  of  virtue,  that — by 
inevitable  action  of  the  law  of  contraries — the  two  friends  found 
it  more  than  ever  difficult  to  say  farewell  and  part  that  night. 

Now  looking  back  on  all  that,  viewing  it  calmly  in  perspective, 
her  action  and  attitude  struck  Helen  as  somewhat  imbecile. 
Prayer  and  penitence  have  too  often  a  tendency  to  kick  the  beam 
when  fear  ceases  to  weight  the  balance.  And  so  it  followed  that 
the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the  lust  of  the  eye,  and  the  pride  of  life, 
presented  themselves  to  her  as  powers  by  no  means  contemptible, 
or  unworthy  of  invocation,  this  morning,  while  she  sat  at  the 
luxuriously  furnished  breakfast-table  beneath  the  glistering  dome 
of  the  airy  pavilion  and  gazed  out  between  its  slender  columns, 
over  the  curving  lines  of  the  painted  city  and  glittering  waters  of 
the  bay,  to  the  cone  of  Vesuvius  rising,  in  imperial  purple,  against 
the  azure  sky.  To-day,  sign,  as  she  noted,  of  fine  weather,  omen, 
as  she  trusted,  of  good  fortune,  the  smoke  of  its  everlasting  burn- 
ings towered  up  and  up  into  the  translucent  atmosphere,  and 
then  drifted  away — a  gigantic,  wedge-shaped  pennon — toward 
Capri  and  the  open  sea.  And,  beholding  these  things,  out  of 
simple,  physical  well-being,  fulness  of  bread,  conviction  of  her 
own  undiminished  beauty,  and  the  merry  devilry  begotten  of 
these,  she  fell  to  projecting  a  second,  a  companion,  one-act 
drama  founded  upon  the  life  of  the  Magdalene,  but,  this  time, 
before  the  saint's  conversion,  at  an  altogether  earlier  stage  of  her 
very  instructive  history.  And  this  drama  she  would  not  read  to 
M.  Destournellc— not  a  bit  of  it.  In  it  he  should  have  neither 
[)art  nor  lot.     Registering  which  determination,  she  shook  her 


38o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

charming,  honey-coloured  head,  holding  up  both  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  humorous  and  well-defined  repudiation. 

For,  in   truth,  the   day  of  M.   Destournelle   appeared,  just 
now,  to  be  very  effectually  over.     It  had  been  reasonable  enough 
to  urge  her  natural  fears  in  journeying  through  a  war-distracted 
land — although  guarded  by  Charles,  most  discreet  and  resource- 
ful of  English  men-servants,  and  Zelie  Forestier,  most  capable  of 
French  lady's-maids — as  excuse  for   Paul   Destournelle  joining 
her  at  a  wayside  station  a  short  distance  out  of  Paris  and  accom- 
panying her  south.       A  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre.     A  beautiful 
woman  can  hardly  be  too  careful  of  her  person  amid  the  many 
and  primitive  dangers  which  battle  and  invasion  let  loose.     De 
Vallorbes   himself — detestably  jealous    though   he   was — could 
hardly  have  objected  to  her  thus  securing  effective  protection, 
had  he  been  acquainted  with  the  fact.     That  he  was  not  so 
acquainted   was,    of   course,    the   veriest    oversight.      But,    the 
frontier   once   reached — the   better   part    of    three   weeks   had 
elapsed  in  the  reaching  of  it — and  all  danger  of  war  and  tumult 
past,  both  the  necessity  and,  to  be  frank,  the  entertainment  of 
M.    Destournelle's   presence   became   less   convincing.      Helen 
grew  a  trifle  weary  of  his  transports,  his  suspicions,  his  bel  tele  de 
Jesu  souffrant,  his  insatiable  literary  and  personal  vanity.     The 
charm,  the  excitement,  of  the  situation,  began  to  wear  rather 
threadbare,  while  the  practical  inconveniences  and  restrictions 
it  imposed  increasingly  disclosed  themselves.     A  lover,  as  Helen 
reflected,  provided  you  see  enough  of  him,  offers  but  small  im- 
provement upon  a  husband.     He  is  liable  to  become  possessive 
and  didactic,  after  the  manner  of  the  natural  man.     He  is  liable 
to  forget  that  the  relation  is  permitted,  not  legalised ;  that  it 
exists  on  sufferance  merely,  and  is  therefore  terminable  at  the 
will   of   either   party.     The   last   days   of  that  same   southern 
journey  had  been  marked  by  misunderstandings  and  subsequent 
reconciliations,  in  an  ascending  scale  of  acrimony  and  fervour 
on   the   part   of  her   companion.     In  Helen's  case  familiarity 
tended  very  rapidly  to  breed  contempt.     She  ceased  to  be  in  the 
least  amused  by  these  recurring  agitations.     At  Pisa,  after  a 
scene  of  a   particularly   excited   nature,  she  lost  all  patience, 
frankly   told   her  admirer    that    she    found    him   not   a   little 
ridiculous,  and  requested  him  to  remove  himself,  his  grievances, 
and  his  bel  tete  dejesu  elsewhere.     M.  Destournelle  took  refuge 
in  nerves,  threats  of  morphia,  and  his  bed-chamber, — in  the 
chaste  seclusion  of  which  apartment  Helen  left  him,  unvisited 
and   unconsoled,   while,    attended   by   her   servants,    she   gaily 
resumed  her  journey. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  381 

An  adorable  sense  of  independence  possessed  her,  of  the 
charm  of  her  own  society,  of  the  absence  of  all  external  com- 
pelling or  directing  of  her  movements — no  circumscription  of 
her  liberty  possible — the  world  before  her  where  to  choose  ! 
Not  only  were  privations,  dismal  hauntings  of  siege  and 
slaughter,  left  behind,  and  M.  Destournelle,  just  now  most 
wearisome  of  lovers,  left  behind  also,  but  de  Vallorbes  himself 
had,  for  the  time  being,  become  a  permissibly  negligible 
quantity.  The  news  of  more  fighting,  more  bloodshed,  had  just 
reached  her,  though  the  German  armies  were  marching  back  to 
the  now  wholly  German  Rhine.  For  upon  unhappy  Paris  had 
come  an  hour  of  deeper  humiliation  than  any  which  could  be 
procured  by  the  action  of  foreign  foes.  She  was  a  kingdom 
divided  against  herself,  a  mother  scandalously  torn  by  her  own 
children.  News  had  reached  Helen  too,  news  special  and  highly 
commendatory,  of  her  husband,  Angelo  Luigi  Francesco.  Early 
in  that  eventful  struggle  he  had  enlisted  in  the  Garde  Mobile, 
all  the  manhood  and  honest  sentiment  resident  in  him  stirred 
into  fruitful  activity  by  the  shame  and  peril  of  his  adopted 
country.  Now  Helen  learned  he  had  distinguished  himself  in 
the  holding  of  Chatillon  against  the  insurgents,  had  been  com- 
plimented by  MacMahon  upon  his  endurance  and  resource,  had 
been  offered,  and  had  accepted,  a  commission  in  the  regular  army. 
Promotion  was  rapid  during  the  later  months  of  the  war,  and 
probability  pointed  to  the  young  man  having  started  on  a  serious 
military  career. 

"  Well,  let  him  both  start  and  continue,"  Helen  commented. 
"  I  am  the  last  person  to  be  otherwise  than  delighted  thereat. 
Just  in  proportion  as  he  is  occupied  he  ceases  to  be  inconvenient. 
If  he  succeeds — good.  If  he  is  shot — good  likewise.  For  him 
laurels  and  a  hero's  tomb.  For  me  crape  and  permanent 
emancipation.  An  agreeably  romantic  conclusion  to  a  pro- 
foundly un romantic  marriage — fresh  j)roof,  were  such  needed, 
of  the  truth  of  the  immortal  Dr.  Pangloss  saying,  that  'all  is 
for  the  best  in  this  best  of  all  possible  worlds  ! ' " 

In  such  happy  frame  of  mind  did  Madame  do  Vallorbes 
continue  during  lier  visit  to  Florence  and  upon  her  onward  way 
to  Perugia.  Put  there  self-admiration  ceased  to  be  all-sufficient 
for  her.  She  needed  to  read  confirmation  of  that  admiration  in 
other  eyes.  And  the  grey  Etruscan  city,  ujjlifted  on  its  star-shaped 
hill,  offered  her  a  somewhat  grim  reception.  Piercing  winds 
swept  across  the  Tiber  valley  from  the  still  snow-clad  Apennines 
above  Assisi.  The  austere,  dark-walled,  lombard-gothic  churches 
and  palaces  showed  forbidding,  merciless  almost,   through   the 


382  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

driving  wet.  Even  in  fair  summer  weather  suspicion  of  ancient 
and  implacable  terror  lurks  in  the  shadow  of  those  cyclopean 
gateways,  and  stalks  over  the  unyielding,  rock-hewn  pavements 
of  those  solemn,  mediaeval  streets.  There  was  an  incalculable 
element  in  Perugia  which  raised  a  certain  anger  in  Helen.  The 
place  seemed  to  defy  her  and  make  light  of  her  pretensions.  As 
during  the  siege  of  Paris,  so  now,  echoes  of  the  eternal  laughter 
saluted  her  ears,  ironic  in  tone. 

Nor  was  the  society  offered  by  the  residents  in  the  hotel, 
weather-bound  like  herself,  of  a  specially  enlivening  description. 
It  was  composed  almost  exclusively  of  middle-aged  English  and 
American  ladies  —  widows  and  spinsters — of  blameless  morals 
and  anxiously  active  intelligence.  They  wrapped  their  lean 
forms  in  woollen  shawls  and  ill-cut  jackets.  They  pervaded 
salon  and  corridors  guide-book  in  hand.  They  discoursed  of 
Umbrian  antiquities,  Etruscan  tombs,  frescoes  and  architecture. 
Having  but  little  life  in  themselves,  they  tried,  rather  vainly,  to 
warm  both  hands  at  the  fire  of  the  life  of  the  past.  Among 
them,  Helen,  in  her  vigorous  and  self-secure,  though  fine-drawn, 
beauty,  was  about  as  much  at  home  as  a  young  panther  in  a 
hen-roost.  They  admired,  they  vaguely  feared,  they  greatly 
wondered  at  her.  Had  one  of  those  glorious  young  gallants, 
Baglioni  or  Oddi,  clothed  in  scarlet,  winged,  helmeted,  sword 
on  thigh,  as  Perugino  has  painted  them  on  the  walls  of  the 
Sala  del  Cambio — very  strangest  union  of  sensuous  worldliness 
and  radiant,  arch-angelic  grace — had  one  of  these  magnificent 
gentlemen  ruffled  into  the  hotel  parlour,  he  could  hardly  have 
startled  the  eyes,  and  perplexed  the  understanding,  of  the  virtuous 
and  learned  Anglo-Saxon  and  Transatlantic  feminine  beings 
there  assembled  more  than  did  Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

For  all  such  sexless  creatures,  for  the  great  company  of 
women  in  whose  outlook  man  plays  no  immediate  or  active  part, 
Helen  had,  in  truth,  small  respect.  They  appeared  to  her  so 
absurdly  inadequate,  so  contemptibly  divorced  from  the  primary 
interests  of  existence.  More  than  once,  in  a  spirit  of  mischievous 
malice,  she  was  tempted  to  bid  the  good  ladies  lay  aside  their 
Baedekers  and  Murrays,  and  increase  their  knowledge  of  the 
Italian  character  and  language  by  study  of  the  Novelle  of 
Bandello,  or  of  certain  merry  tales  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
the  Decameron.  She  had  copies  of  both  works  in  her  travelling- 
bag.  She  was  prepared,  moreover,  to  illustrate  such  ancient 
saws  by  modern  instances,  for  the  truth  of  which  last  she  could 
quite  honestly  vouch.  But  on  second  thoughts  she  spared  her 
victims.     The  quarry  was   not    worth   the   chase.     What   self- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  385 

respecting  panther  can,  after  all,  go  a-hunting  in  a  hen-roost  ? 
So  from  the  neighbourhood  of  their  unlovely  clothes,  questioning 
glances,  and  under-\'italised  pursuit  of  art  and  literature,  she 
removed  herself  to  her  sitting-room  upstairs.  Charles  should 
serve  her  meals  there  in  future;  for  to  sit  at  table  with  these 
neuters,  clothed  in  amorphous  garments,  came  near  upsetting 
her  digestion. 

Meanwhile,  as  she  watched  the  rain  streaming  down  the  panes 
of  the  big  windows,  watched  thin-legged,  heavily-cloaked  figures 
tacking,  wind-buffeted,  across  the  grey-black  street  into  the 
shelter  of  some  cavernous  port  cochere,  it  must  be  owned  her 
spirits  went  very  sensibly  down  into  her  boots.  Even  the 
presence  of  the  despised  and  repudiated  Destournelle  would 
have  been  grateful  to  her.  Remembrance  of  all  the  less 
successful  episodes  of  her  career  assaulted  her.  And  in  that 
connection,  of  necessity,  the  thought  of  Brockhurst  returned 
upon  her.  For  neither  the  affair  of  her  childhood — that  of  the 
little  dancer  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat — or  the  other  affair — 
of  now  nearly  four  years  back — the  intimate  drama  frustrated, 
within  sight  of  its  climax,  by  intervention  of  Lady  Calmady — 
could  be  counted  otherwise  than  as  failures.  It  was  strange 
how  deep-seated  was  her  discontent  under  this  head.  As  on 
Queen  Mary's  heart  the  word  Calais,  so  on  hers  Brockhurst,  she 
sometimes  thought,  might  be  found  written  when  she  was  dead. 
In  the  last  four  years  Richard  had  given  her  princely  gifts.  He 
had  treated  her  with  a  fine,  old-world  chivalry,  as  something 
sacred  and  apart.  But  he  rarely  sought  her  society.  He  seemed, 
rather  carefully,  to  elude  her  pursuit.  His  name  was  not  exactly 
a  patent  of  discretion  and  rectitude  in  these  days  unfortunately. 
Still  Helen  found  his  care  of  her  reputation — as  far  as  association 
of  her  name  with  his  own  went — somewhat  exaggerated.  She 
could  hardly  believe  him  to  be  indifferent  to  her,  and  yet — •  Oh  ! 
the  whole  matter  was  unsatisfactory,  abominably  unsatisfactory — 
of  a  piece  with  the  disquieting  influences  of  this  grim  and  fateful 
city,  with  the  detestable  weather  evident  there  without ! 

And  then,  suddenly,  an  idea  came  to  Helen  de  Vallorbes, 
causing  the  delicate  colour  to  sjjring  into  her  cheeks,  and  the  light 
into  her  eyes,  veiled  by  those  fringed,  semitransparent  lids. 
For,  some  two  years  earlier,  Richard  Calmady  had  taken  her 
husband's  villa  at  Naples  on  lease,  it  offering,  as  he  said,  a 
conwcnicni  pied  a /em  \.o  him  while  yachting  along  the  adjacent 
coasts,  up  the  Black  Sea  to  Odessa,  and  eastward  as  far  as 
Aden,  and  the  Persian  Clulf.  The  house,  save  for  the  actual 
fabric  of  it,  had  become  rather  dilapidated   and  ruinate.     To 


384  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

de  Vallorbes  it  appeared  clearly  advantageous  to  get  the  property 
off  his  hands,  and  touch  a  considerable  yearly  sum,  rather  than 
have  his  pocket  drained  by  outgoings  on  a  place  in  which  he 
no  longer  cared  to  live.  So  the  Villa  Vallorbes  passed  for  the 
time  being  into  Richard  Calmady's  possession.  It  pleased  his 
fancy.  Helen  heard  he  had  restored  and  refurnished  it  at  great 
expenditure  of  money  and  of  taste. 

These  facts  she  recalled.  And,  recalling  them,  found  both 
the  actuality  of  rain-blurred,  wind-scourged  town  without,  and 
anger-begetting  memories  of  Brockhurst  within,  fade  before  a 
seductive  vision  of  sun-bathed  Naples  and  of  that  nobly  placed 
and  painted  villa,  in  which — as  it  seemed  to  her — was  just  now 
resident  promise  of  high  entertainment,  the  objective  delight  of 
abnormal  circumstance,  the  subjective  delight  of  long-cherished 
revenge.  All  the  rapture  of  her  existing  freedom  came  back  on 
her ;  while  her  brain,  fertile  in  forecast  of  adventure,  projected 
scenes  and  situations  not  unworthy  of  the  pen  of  Boccaccio 
himself.  Fired  by  such  thoughts,  she  moved  from  the  window, 
stood  before  a  tall  glass  at  right  angles  to  it  and  contemplated 
her  own  fair  reflection  long  and  intimately.  An  absorbing 
interest  in  the  general  effect,  and  in  the  details,  of  her  person 
possessed  her.  She  moved  to  and  fro  observing  the  grace  of 
her  carriage,  the  set  of  her  hips,  the  slenderness  of  her  waist. 
She  unfastened  her  soft,  trailing  tea-gown,  throwing  the  loose 
bodice  of  it  back,  critically  examining  her  bare  neck,  the  swell 
of  her  beautiful  bosom,  the  firm  contours  of  her  arms  from 
shoulder  to  elbow.  Her  skin  was  of  a  clear,  golden  whiteness, 
smooth,  fine  in  texture,  as  that  of  a  child.  Placing  her  hands 
on  the  gilded  frame  of  the  mirror,  high  up  on  either  side,  she 
observed  her  face,  exquisitely  healthful  in  colour,  even  as  seen 
in  this  mournful,  afternoon  light.  She  leaned  forward,  gazing 
intently  into  her  own  eyes — meeting  in  them,  as  Narcissus  in 
the  surface  of  the  fatal  pool,  the  radiant  image  of  herself.  And 
this  filled  her  with  a  certain  intoxication,  a  voluptuous  self-love, 
a  profound  persuasion  of  the  power  and  completeness  of  her 
own  beauty.  She  caressed  her  own  neck,  her  own  lips,  with 
lingering  finger-tips.  She  bent  her  bright  head  and  kissed  the 
swell  of  her  cuplike  breasts.  Never  had  she  received  so  entire 
assurance  of  the  magic  of  her  own  personality. 

"  It  is  all — all,  as  perfect  as  ever  !  "  she  exclaimed  exultantly. 
"  And  while  it  remains  perfect,  it  should  be  made  use  of." 

Helen  waved  her  hand,  smiling,  to  the  smiling  image  in  the 
mirror. 

"You  and  I  together — your  beauty  and  my  brains — I  pit 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  385 

the  pair  of  us  against  all  mankind  !  Together  we  have  worked 
pretty  little  miracles  before  now,  causing  the  proud  to  lay 
aside  their  pride  and  the  godly  their  virtue.  A  man  of  strange 
passions  shall  hardly  escape  us — nor  shall  the  mother  that  bare 
him  escape  either." 

Her  face  hardened,  her  laughing  eyes  paled  to  the  colour 
of  fine  steel.  She  lifted  the  soft-curling  hair  from  off  her  right 
temple,  disclosing  a  small,  crescent-shaped  scar. 

"That  is  the  one  blemish,  and  we  will  exact  the  price  of  it — 
you  and  I — to  the  ultimate  sous." 

Then  she  moved  away,  smitten  by  sudden  amusement  at 
her  own  attitude,  which  she  perceived  risked  being  slightly 
ridiculous.  Heroics  were,  to  her  thinking,  unsuitable  articles  for 
home  consumption.  Yet  her  purpose  held  none  the  less  strongly 
and  steadily  because  excitement  lessened.  She  refasterted  her 
tea-gown,  tied  the  streaming  azure  ribbons  of  it,  patted  bows  and 
laces  into  place,  walked  the  length  of  the  room  a  time  or  two 
to  recover  her  composure,  then  rang  the  bell.  And,  on  the 
arrival  of  Charles, — irreproachably  correct  in  dress  and  demeanour, 
his  clean-shaven,  sharp-featured,  rakish  countenance  controlled 
to  praiseworthy  nullity  of  expression, — she  said  : — 

"The  weather  is  abominable." 

The  man-servant  set  down  the  tray  on  a  little  table  before 
her,  turned  out  the  corners  of  the  napkin,  deftly  arranged  the 
tea-things. 

">"  It  is  a  little  dull,  my  lady." 

"  How  is  the  glass?" 

"  Falling  steadily,  my  lady." 

"  I  cannot  remain  here." 

"No,  my  lady?" 

"  Find  out  about  the  trains  south — to  Naples." 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  We  can  join  the  Roman  express  at  Chiusi. 
When  does  your  ladyship  wish  to  start?" 

"  I  must  telegrajjh  first." 

"Certainly,  my  lady." 

Charles  produced  telegraph  forms.  It  was  Helen's  boast 
that,  upon  retiuest,  the  man  could  produce  any  known  object 
from  a  packet  of  pins  to  a  white  clcj^hant,  or  fully  manned 
battleship.  She  had  a  lively  regard  for  her  servant's  ability. 
So  had  he,  it  may  be  added,  for  that  of  his  mistress.  'Jhe 
telegram  was  written  and  despatched.  But  the  reply  took  four 
days  in  reaching  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  and  during  those  days 
it  rained  incessantly.  '1  he  said  rejdy  came  in  the  form  of  a 
letter.     Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  at  Constantinople,  so  the  writer 

25 


SS6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— Bates,  his  steward — had  reason  to  believe.  But  it  was  probable 
he  would  return  to  Naples  shortly.  Meanwhile  he — the  steward 
— had  permanent  orders  to  the  effect  that  the  villa  was  at 
Madame  de  Vallorbes'  disposition  should  she  at  any  time 
express  the  wish  to  visit  it.  She  would  find  everything  prepared 
for  her  reception.  This  information  caused  Helen  singular 
satisfaction.  It  was  very  charming,  very  courteous,  of  Richard 
thus  to  remember  her.  She  set  forth  from  Perugia  full  of 
ingenious  purpose,  deliciously  light  of  heart. 

Thus  did  it  come  about  that,  on  the  afore-mentioned  gay, 
spring  morning,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  breakfasted  beneath  the 
glistering  dome  of  the  airy  pavilion,  all  Naples  outstretched 
before  her,  while  the  blossoms  of  the  Judas-trees  fell  in  a  red- 
mauve  shower  upon  the  slabs  of  the  marble  pavement,  and  the 
mimic  waves  of  the  fountain  basin,  and  upon  the  clustered  curls 
and  truncated  shoulders  of  the  bust  of  Homer  stationed  within 
the  soft  gloom  of  the  ilex  and  cypress  grove.  She  had  arrived 
the  previous  evening,  and  had  met  with  a  dignified  welcome  from 
the  numerous  household.  Her  manner  was  gracious,  kindly, 
captivating — she  intended  it  to  be  all  that.  She  slept  well,  rose 
in  buoyant  health  and  spirits,  partook  of  a  meal  offering  example 
of  the  most  finished  Italian  cooking.  Finish,  in  any  department, 
appealed  to  Helen's  artistic  sense.  Life  was  sweet — moreover 
it  was  supremely  interesting !  Her  breakfast  ended,  rising 
from  her  place  at  table,  she  looked  away  to  the  purple  cone 
of  the  great  volcano  and  the  uprising  of  the  smoke  of  its  ever- 
lasting burnings.  The  sight  of  this,  magnificent,  menacing, 
evidence  of  the  anarchic  might  of  the  powers  of  nature, 
quickened  the  pagan  instinct  within  her.  She  wanted  to 
worship.  And  even  in  so  doing,  she  became  aware  of  a  kindred 
something  in  herself — of  an  answering  and  anarchic  energy,  a 
certain  menace  to  the  conventional  works  and  ways,  and 
fancied  security,  of  groping,  purblind  man.  The  insolence 
of  a  great  lady,  the  dangerously  primitive  instincts  of  a  great 
courtesan,  filled  her  with  an  enormous  pride,  a  reckless  self- 
confidence. 

Turning,  she  glanced  back  across  the  formal  garden,  bright 
with  waxen  camellias  set  in  glossy  foliage,  with  early  roses,  with 
hyacinths,  lemon  and  orange  blossom,  towards  the  villa.  Upon 
the  black-and-white  marble  balustrade  a  man  leaned  his  elbows. 
She  could  see  his  broad  shoulders,  his  bare  head.  From  his 
height  she  took  him,  at  first,  to  be  kneeling,  as,  motionless,  he 
looked  towards  her  and  towards  the  splendid  view.  Then  she 
perceived  that  he  was  not  kneeling,  but  standing  upright.     She 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  387 

understood,  and  a  very  vital  sensation  ran  right  through  her, 
causing  the  queerest  turn  in  her  blood. 

"  Mercy  of  heaven  ! "  she  said  to  herself,  "  is  it  conceivable 
that  now,  at  this  time  of  day,  I  am  capable  of  the  egregious 
folly  of  losing  my  head  ?  " 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEREIX    TI.MK    IS    DISCOVEKKD    TO    HAVE    WORKED    CHANGES 

HELEN,  however,  did  not  stay  to  debate  as  to  the  state  of 
her  emotions.  She  had  had  more  than  enough  of  reflec- 
tion of  late.  Now  action  invited  her.  She  responded.  The 
sweep  of  her  turquoise-blue,  cloth  skirts  sent  the  fallen  Judas- 
blossoms  dancing,  to  left  and  right,  in  crazy  whirling  companies. 
She  did  not  wait  even  to  put  on  her  broad-brimmed,  garden  hat, 
— the  crown  of  it  encircled,  as  luck  would  have  it,  by  a  garland 
of  pale,  pink  tulle  and  pale,  pink  roses, — but  braved  the  sunshine 
with  no  stouter  head  -  covering  than  the  coils  of  her  honey- 
coloured  hair.  Rapidly  she  passed  up  the  central  alley  between 
the  double  row  of  glossy  leaved  camellia  bushes,  laughter  in  her 
downcast  eyes  and  a  delicious  thrill  of  excitement  at  her  heart. 
She  felt  strong  and  light,  her  being  vibrant,  penetrated  and  sus- 
tained throughout  by  the  bracing  air,  the  sparkling,  crystal-clear 
atmosphere.  Yet  for  all  her  eagerness  Helen  remained  an  artist. 
She  would  not  forestall  effects.  Thriftily  she  husbanded  sensa- 
tions. Thus,  reaching  the  base  of  the  black-and-white  marble 
wall  supporting  the  terrace,  where,  midway  in  its  long  length,  it 
was  broken  by  an  arched  grotto  of  rough-hewn  stonework,  in 
which  maiden-hair  fern  rooted, — the  delicate  fronds  of  it  caress- 
ing the  shoulders  of  an  undrapcd  nymph,  with  ever-dripping 
water-pitcher  upon  her  rounded  hip, — Helen  turned  sharp  to 
the  left,  and  arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  descending  flight  of 
steps  without  once  looking  up.  That  Richard  Calmady  still 
leaned  on  the  bulustrade,  some  twelve  to  fourteen  feet  above 
that  same  cool,  green  grotto,  she  knew  well  enough.  But  she 
did  not  choose  to  anticipate  either  sight  or  greeting  of  him. 
J5oth  should  come  to  her  as  a  whole.  She  would  receive  a 
single  and  unqualified  impression. 

So,  silently,  without  apparent  haste,  she  passed  up  the  flight  of 
shallow  steps  on  to  the  edge  of  tlie  wide,  black-and-white,  chequer- 
Ijoard  platform.  It  was  sun-bathed,  suspended,  as  it  seemed, 
between  that  glorious  prospect  of  city,  mountain,  sea,  and  the 


388  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

unsullied  purity  of  the  southern  heavens.  It  was  vacant,  save 
for  the  solitary  figure  and  the  sharp-edged,  yet  amorphous, 
shadow  cast  by  that  same  figure.  For  the  young  man  had 
moved  as  she  came  up  from  the  garden  below.  He  stood  clear 
of  the  balustrade,  only  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  resting  upon 
the  handrail  of  it.  Seeing  him  thus,  the  strangeness,  the 
grotesque  incompleteness,  of  his  person  struck  her  as  never 
before.  But  this,  though  it  did  not  move  her  to  mirth,  as  in 
her  childhood,  moved  her  to  pity  no  more  now  than  it  then 
had.  That  which  it  did  was  to  deepen,  to  stimulate,  her 
excitement,  to  provoke  and  to  satisfy  the  instinct  of  cruelty 
latent  in  every  pagan  nature  such  as  hers.  Could  Helen  have 
chosen  the  moment  of  her  birth  she  would  have  been  a  great 
lady  of  Imperial  Rome,  holding  power  of  life  and  death  over 
her  slaves,  and  the  mutes  and  eunuchs  with  which  the  East 
should  have  furnished  her  palace  in  the  eternal  city,  and  her 
dainty  villa  away  there  on  the  purple  flanks  of  Vesuvius  at 
Herculaneum  or  Pompeii.  The  delight  of  her  own  loveliness,  of 
her  own  triumphant  health  and  activity,  would  have  been  in- 
creased tenfold  by  the  sight  of,  by  power  over,  such  stultified 
and  hopelessly  disfranchised  human  creatures.  And  the  first 
sight  of  Richard  Calmady  now,  though  she  did  not  stop  very 
certainly  to  analyse  the  exact  how  and  why  of  her  increasing 
satisfaction,  took  its  root  in  this  same  craving  for  ascendency  by 
means  of  the  suffering  and  loss  of  others.  While,  unconsciously, 
the  fine  flavour  of  her  satisfaction  was  heightened  by  the  fact 
that  the  victim,  now  before  her,  was  her  equal  in  birth,  her 
superior  in  wealth,  in  intelligence  and  worldly  station. 

But,  as  she  drew  nearer,  Richard  the  while  making  no  effort 
to  go  forward  and  receive  her,  buoyant  self-complacency  and 
self -congratulation  suffered  diminution.  For,  rehearsing  this 
same  meeting  during  those  rain -blotted  days  of  waiting  at 
Perugia,  imagination  had  presented  Dickie  as  the  inexperienced, 
tender-hearted,  sweet-natured  lad  she  had  known  and  beguiled  at 
Brockhurst  four  years  earlier.  As  has  already  been  stated  her 
meetings  with  him,  since  then,  had  been  brief  and  infrequent. 
Now  she  perceived  that  imagination  had  played  a  silly  trick 
upon  her.  The  boy  she  had  left,  the  man  who  stood  awaiting 
her  so  calmly  were,  save  in  one  distressing  peculiarity,  two 
widely  different  persons.  For,  in  the  interval,  Richard  Calmady 
had  eaten  very  freely  of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  the  Knowledge 
of  Good  and  Evil,  and  that  diet  had  left  its  mark  not  only  on 
his  character,  but  on  his  appearance.  He  had  matured  notably, 
all  trace  of  ingenuous,  boyish  charm  having  vanished.     His  skin, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  "  389 

though  darkened  by  recent  sea-faring,  was  colourless.  His 
features  were  at  once  finer  and  more  pronounced  than  of  old — 
the  bone  of  the  face  giving  it  a  noticeable  rigidity  of  outline, 
index  at  once  of  indomitable  will  and  irreproachable  breeding. 
The  powerful  jaw  and  strong  muscular  neck  might  have  argued 
a  measure  of  brutality.  But  happily  the  young  man's  mouth  had 
not  coarsened.  His  lips  were  compressed,  relaxing  rarely  into 
the  curves  which,  as  a  lad,  had  rendered  his  smile  so  peculiarly 
engaging.  Still  there  was  no  trace  of  grossness  in  their  form  or 
expression.  Hard  living  had,  indeed,  in  Richard's  case,  been 
matter  of  research  rather  than  of  appetite.  The  intellectual  part 
of  him  had  never  fallen  wholly  into  bondage  to  the  animal.  He 
explored  the  borders  of  the  Forbidden  hoping  to  find  some 
anodyne  with  which  to  assuage  the  ache  of  a  vital  discontent, 
rather  than  by  any  compulsion  of  natural  lewdness. 

Much  of  this  quick-witted  Helen  quickly  apprehended.  He 
was  cleverer,  more  serious,  and  mentally  more  distinguished, 
than  she  had  supposed  him.  And  this,  while  opening  up  new 
sources  of  interest  and  pricking  her  ambition  of  conquest,  dis- 
closed unforeseen  difficulties  in  the  way  of  such  conquest. 
Moreover,  she  was  slightly  staggered  by  the  strength  and 
inscrutability  of  his  countenance,  the  repose  of  his  bearing 
and  manner.  His  eyes  afi'ected  her  oddly.  They  were  cold 
and  clear  as  some  frosty,  winter's  night,  the  pupils  of  them  very 
small.  They  seemed  to  see  all  things,  yet  tell  nothing.  They 
were  as  windows  opening  onto  endless  perspectivts  of  empty 
space.  They  at  once  challenged  curiosity  and  baffled  inquiry. 
Helen's  excitement  deepened,  and  she  was  sensible  it  needed 
all  the  subjective  support,  all  the  indirect  flattery,  with  which  the 
fact  of  his  deformity  supplied  her  self-love  to  prevent  her  stand- 
ing in  awe  of  him.  As  consequence  her  address  was  impulsive 
rather  than  studied. 

"  Richard,  1  have  had  a  detestable  winter,"  she  said.  "  It 
wore  upon  me.  It  demoralised  me.  I  was  growing  dull, 
superstitious  even.  I  wanted  to  get  away,  to  put  a  long  distance 
between  myself  and  certain  exi)eriences,  certain  memories.  I 
wanted  to  hear  another  language.  You  have  always  been 
sympathetic  to  me.  It  was  natural,  if  a  liltle  unconventional, 
to  take  refuge  with  you." 

Madame  de  Vallorbcs  spoke  with  an  unaccustomed  and  very 
seductive  air  of  apology,  her  face  slightly  flushed,  her  arms 
hanging  straight  at  her  sides,  the  long,  pink,  tulle  strings  of  the 
hat  she  carried  in  her  left  hand  trailing  U[)on  the  black-and- 
white  squares  of  the  pavement. 


ov 


Qo  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


(( ' 


'  To  do  so  seemed  obvious  in  contemplation.  I  did  not 
stop  to  consider  possible  objections.  But,  in  execution,  the 
objections  become  hourly  more  glaringly  apparent.  I  want  you 
to  reassure  me.  Tell  me  I  have  not  dared  too  greatly  in  coming 
thus  uninvited  ?  " 

"  Of  couise  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  hope  you  found  the 
house  comfortable  and  everything  prepared  for  you  ?  The 
servants  had  their  orders." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  That  you  should  have  provided  against 
the  possibility  of  my  coming  some  day  moved  me  a  little  more 
than  I  care  to  tell  you." — Helen  paused,  looking  upon  him,  and 
that  look  had  in  it  a  delicate  athnity  to  a  caress.  But  the  young 
man's  manner,  though  faultlessly  courteous,  was  lacking  in  any 
hint  of  enthusiasm.  Helen  could  have  imagined,  and  that 
angered  her,  something  of  irony  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  there's  no  matter  for  thanks,"  he  said.  "The  house 
was  yours,  will  be  yours  again.  The  least  I  can  do,  since  you 
and  de  Vallorbes  are  good  enough  to  let  me  live  in  it  meanwhile, 
is  to  beg  you  to  make  any  use  you  please  of  it.  Indeed  it  is  I, 
rather  than  you,  who  come  uninvited  just  now.  I  had  not 
intended  being  back  here  for  another  month.  But  there  was  a 
case  of  something  suspiciously  like  cholera  on  board  my  yacht  at 
Constantinople,  and  it  seemed  wisest  to  get  away  to  sea  as  soon 
as  possible.  One  of  the  firemen — oh,  he's  all  right  now. — Still 
I  shall  send  him  home  to  England.  He's  a  married  man — the 
only  one  I  have  on  board.  A  useful  fellow,  but  he  must  go,  I 
don't  choose  to  take  the  responsibility  of  creating  the  widow  and 
the  fatherless  whenever  one  of  my  crew  chances  to  fall  sick  and 
depart  into  the  unknown." 

Richard  talked  on,  very  evidently  for  the  mere  sake  of 
passing  the  time.  And  all  the  while  those  eyes,  which  told 
nothing,  dwelt  quietly  upon  Helen  de  Vallorbes  until  she 
became  nervously  impatient  of  their  scrutiny.  For  it  was  not 
at  all  thus  that  she  had  pictured  and  rehearsed  this  meeting 
during  those  days  of  waiting  at  Perugia  ! 

"We  got  in  last  night,"  he  continued.  "But  I  slept  on 
board.  I  heard  you  had  just  arrived,  and  I  did  not  care  to  run 
the  risk  of  disturbing  you  after  your  journey." 

"  You  are  very  considerate,"  Helen  remarked. 

She  was  surprised  out  of  all  readiness  of  speech.  This  new 
Richard  impressed  her,  but  she  resented  his  manner.  He  took 
her  so  very  much  for  granted.  Admiration  and  homage  were  to 
her  as  her  daily  bread,  and  that  any  man  should  fail  to  offer 
them  caused  her  frank  amazement.     It  did  more.     It  raised  in 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  391 

her  a  longing  to  inflict  pain.  He  might  not  admire,  but  at  least 
he  should  not  remain  indifferent.  Therefore  she  backed  a 
couple  of  steps,  so  as  to  get  a  good  view  of  Richard  Calmady. 
And,  without  any  disguise  of  her  purpose,  took  a  comprehensive 
and  leisurely  survey  of  his  dwarfed  and  mutilated  figure.  While 
so  doing  she  pinned  on  her  rose-trimmed  hat,  and  twisted  the 
long,  tulle  strings  of  it  about  her  throat. 

"You  have  altered  a  good  deal,  Richard,"  she  said  re- 
flectively. 

"Probably,"  he  answered.  "I  had  a  good  deal  to  learn, 
being  a  very  thin-skinned,  young  simpleton.  In  part,  anyhow,  I 
have  learned  it.  And  1  do  my  best  practically  to  apply  my 
knowledge.  But  if  I  have  altered,  so,  happily,  have  not 
you." 

"  I  remain  a  simpleton  ?  "  she  inquired,  her  irritation  finding 
voice. 

"You  cannot  very  well  remain  that  which  you  never  have 
been.  What  you  do  remain  is — if  I  may  say  so — victoriously 
yourself,  unspoiled,  unmodified  by  contact  with  that  singularly 
stupid  invention,  society,  true  to  my  earliest  recollections  of  you 
even  " —  Richard  shuffled  closer  to  the  balustrade,  threw  his  left 
arm  across  it,  grasping  the  outer  edge  of  the  broad  coping, — 
"even  in  small  details  of  dress." 

He  looked  away  over  the  immense  and  radiant  prospect,  and 
then  up  at  the  radiant  woman  in  her  vesture  of  turquoise,  pink, 
and  gold. 

And,  so  doing,  for  the  first  time  his  face  relaxed,  being 
lighted  up  by  a  flickering,  mocking  smile.  And  something  in 
his  shuffling  movements,  in  the  fine  irony  of  his  expression, 
pierced  Helen  with  a  sensation  hitherto  unknown,  broke  up  the 
absoluteness  of  her  egotism,  stirred  her  blood.  She  forgot 
resentment  in  an  absorbed  and  absorbing  interest.  The  ordinary 
man  of  the  world  she  knew  as  thoroughly  as  her  old  shoe.  Such 
an  one  presented  small  field  of  discovery  to  her.  But  this  man 
was  unique  in  person,  and  promised  to  be  so  in  character  also. 
Her  curiosity  regarding  him  was  profound.  For  the  moment  it 
sunk  all  personal  considerations,  all  humorous  or  angry  criticism, 
either  of  her  own  attitude  towards  him  or  of  his  attitude  towards 
her.  Silently  she  came  forward,  sat  down  on  the  marble  bench, 
close  to  where  he  stood,  and,  turning  sideways,  leaned  her  elbows 
upon  the  top  of  the  balustrade  beside  him.  She  looked  up  now, 
rather  than  down  at  him  ;  and  it  went  home  to  her,  had  nature 
spared  him  infliction  of  that  hifleous  deformity,  what  a  su[)erb 
creature  physically  he  would  have  been  1     There  was  a  silence, 


392  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Helen  remaining  intent,  quiet,  apprehension  and  imagination 
sensibly  upon  the  stretch. 

At  last  Richard  spoke  abruptly. 

"  By  the  way,  did  you  happen  to  observe  the  decorations  of 
your  room  ?     Do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no,"  she  answered.  "  They  struck  me  as  rather 
wonderful,  but  liable  to  induce  dreams  of  Scylla  and  Charybdis, 
of  the  Fata  Morgana,  and  other  inconvenient  accidents  of  the 
deep.  Fortunately  I  was  too  tired  last  night  to  be  excursive  in 
fancy,  or  I  might  have  slept  badly.  You  have  gathered  all  the 
colours  of  the  ocean  and  fixed  them,  somehow,  on  those  carpets 
and  hangings  and  strangely  frescoed  walls." 

"  You  saw  that  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  fail  to  see  it,  since  you  kindly  excuse  me  of 
being,  or  ever  having  been,  a  simpleton  ?  " — Helen  spoke  lightly, 
tenderly  almost.  An  overmastering  desire  to  please  had  taken 
her.  "  You  have  employed  a  certain  wizardry  in  the  furnishing 
of  that  room,"  she  continued.  "  It  lays  subtle  influences  upon 
one.     What  made  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  A  dream,  an  idea,  which  has  stuck  by  me  queerly,  though 
all  other  fond  things  of  the  sort  were  pitched  overboard  long  ago. 
I  suppose  one  is  bound  to  be  illogical  on  one  point,  if  only  to 
prove  to  oneself  the  absolutism  of  one's  logic  on  all  others. 
Thus  do  I,  otherwise  sane  and  consistent  realist,  materialist, 
pessimist,  cling  to  my  one  dream  and  ideal — take  it  out,  dandle 
it,  nourish  and  cherish  it,  with  weakly  sentimental  faithfulness. 
To  do  so  is  ludicrous.  But  then  my  being  here  at  all,  calmly 
considered,  is  ludicrous.  And  it,  too,  is  among  the  results  of  the 
one  idea." 

He  paused,  and  Helen,  leaning  beside  him,  waited.  The 
sunshine  covered  them  both.  The  sea  wind  was  fresh  in 
their  faces.  While  the  many  voices  of  Naples  came  up  to  them 
confused,  strident,  continuous,  with  sometimes  a  bugle-call, 
sometimes  a  clang  of  hammers,  or  quick  pulse  of  stringed  instru- 
ments, or  jangle  o''  church-bells,  or  long-drawn  bellow  of  a 
steamship  clearing  for  sea,  detaching  itself  from  the  universal 
chorus.  Capri,  Ischia,  Procida,  floated,  islands  of  amethyst,  upon 
the  sapphire  of  the  bay,  and  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius  rolled 
ceaselessly  upward. 

"  You  see  and  hear  and  feel  all  this  ? "  Richard  continued 
presently.  "  Well,  when  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time  I  was  pretty 
thoroughly  out  of  conceit  with  myself  and  all  creation.  I  had 
been  experimenting  freely  in  things  not  usually  talked  of  in  polite 
society.     And  I  was  abominably  sold,  for  I  found  the  enjoyment 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  393 

such  things  procure  is  decidedly  overrated.  Unmentionable 
matters,  once  fully  explored,  are  just  as  tedious  and  inadequate  as 
those  which  supply  the  most  unexceptionable  subjects  of  con- 
versation. Moreover,  in  the  process  of  exploration  I  had 
touched  a  good  deal  of  pitch,  and,  the  simpleton  being  still 
superfluously  to  the  fore  in  me,  I  was  squeamishly  sensible  of 
defilement." 

The  young  man  shifted  his  position  slightly,  resting  his  chin 
in  the  hollow  of  his  hands,  speaking  quietly  and  indifferently, 
as  of  some  matter  foreign  to  himself  and  his  personal  interests. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  I  was  as  fairly  and  squarely 
wretched  as  it  is  possible  for  an  intelligent  being  to  be.  I  had 
convinced  myself,  experimentally,  that  human  existence,  human 
nature,  was  a  bottomless  pit  and  an  uncommonly  filthy  one  at 
that.  Reaction  was  inevitable.  Then  I  understood  why  men 
have  invented  gods,  subscribed  to  irrational  systems  of  theology, 
hailed  and  accredited  transparently  ridiculous  miracles.  Such 
lies  are  necessary  to  certain  stages  of  development  simply  for  the 
preservation  of  sanity,  just  as,  at  another  stage,  sanity,  for  its  own 
preservation,  is  necessarily  driven  to  declare  their  falsehood. 
And  so  I,  after  the  manner  of  my  kind,  was  driven  to  take  refuge 
in  a  dream.  The  subjective,  in  some  form  or  other,  alone  makes 
life  continuously  possible.  And  all  this  we  now  look  at 
determined  the  special  nature  of  my  attempt  at  subjective 
support  and  consolation." 

Richard  paused  again,  contemplating  the  view. 

"  All  this — its  splendour,  its  diversity,  its  caprices  and  seduc- 
tions, its  suggestion  of  underlying  danger — presented  itself  to  me 
as  the  embodiment  of  a  personality  that  has  had  remarkable 
influence  in  the  shaping  of  my  life." 

So  far  Helen  had  listened  intently  and  silently.  Now  she 
moved  a  little,  straightening  up  her  charming  figure,  pulling  down 
the  wide  brim  of  her  hat  to  shelter  her  eyes  from  the  heat  and 
brightness  of  the  sun. 

"  A  woman  ?  "  she  asked  briefly. 

Richard  turned  to  her,  that  same  flickering  of  mockery  in  his 
still  face. 

"  Oh  !  you  mustn't  require  too  much  of  me  !  "  he  said.  "  Re- 
member the  simpleton  was  not  wholly  eradicated  then. — Yes,  very 
much  a  woman.  Of  course.  How  should  it  be  otherwise?  It 
gave  me  great  pleasure  to  look  at  that  which  looked  like  her.  It 
gives  me  pleasure  even  yet.  So  I  wrote  and  asked  de  Vallorbes 
to  be  kind  enough  to  let  mt  rent  the  villa.  You  remember  it 
was  not  particularly  well  cared  for.     There  was  an  air  of  fallen 


394  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

greatness  about  the  poor  place.     Inside  it  was  something  of  a 
barrack." 

"  I  remember,"  Helen  said. 

"Well,  I  restored  and  refurnished  it — specially  the  rooms  you 
now  occupy — in  accordance  with  what  I  imagined  to  be  her  taste. 
The  whole  proceeding  was  not  a  little  feeble-minded,  since  the 
probability  of  her  ever  inhabiting  those  rooms  was  more  than 
remote.  But  it  amused,  it  pacified  me,  as  prayer  to  their  self- 
invented  deities  pacifies  the  devout.  I  never  stay  here  for  long 
together.  If  I  did  the  spell  might  be  broken.  I  go  away,  I 
travel.  I  even  experiment  in  things  not  usually  spoken  of;  but 
with  a  cooler  judgment  and  less  morbidly  sensitive  conscience 
than  of  old.  I  amuse  myself  after  more  active  and  practical 
fashions  in  other  places.  Here  I  amuse  myself  only  with  my 
idea." 

The  even  flow  of  his  speech  ceased. — "  What  do  you  think  of 
it,  Helen  ?  "  he  demanded,  almost  harshly. 

"  I  think  it  can't  last.     It  is  too  intangible,  too  fantastic." 

"  I  admit  that  to  keep  it  intact  needs  an  infinity  of  precau- 
tions. For  instance,  I  can  make  no  near  acquaintance  with 
Naples.  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  see  the  town  at  close  quarters. 
I  only  look  at  it  from  here.  If  I  want  to  go  to  or  from  the  yacht, 
I  do  so  at  night  and  in  a  closed  carriage.  I  took  on  de  Vallorbes' 
box  at  the  San  Carlo.  If  any  good  opera  is  given  I  go  and  hear 
it.  Otherwise  I  remain  exclusively  in  the  house  and  garden.  I 
am  not  acquainted  with  a  single  soul  in  the  place." 

"  And  the  woman  ?  "  Helen  exclaimed,  a  singular  emotion  at 
once  of  envy  and  protest  upon  her.  "  Do  you  treat  her  with  the 
same  cold-blooded  calculation  ?  " 

"  Of  the  woman  I  know  just  as  much  and  just  as  little  as  I 
know  of  Naples.  It  is  conceivable  there  may  be  unlovely 
elements  in  her  character,  as  well  as  unlovely  quarters  of  this 
beautiful  city.  I  have  avoided  knowledge  of  both.  You  see  the 
whole  arrangement  is  designed  not  for  her  benefit,  but  for  my 
own.  It's  an  elaborate  piece  of  self-seeking  on  my  part ;  but,  so 
far,  it  has  really  worked  rather  successfully." 

"  It  is  preposterous.  It  cannot  in  the  nature  of  things 
continue  successful,"  Helen  declared. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  replied  calmly.  "  Even  the 
most  preposterous  of  religious  systems  proves  to  have  a  remark- 
able power  of  survival.  Why  not  this  one  ?  In  any  case,  neither 
the  success  nor  the  failure  depends  on  me.  I  shall  be  true,  on 
my  part.     The  rest  depends  on  her." 

As  Richard  spoke  he  turned,  leaning  his  back  against  the 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  395 

balustrade,  his  face  away  from  the  sunlight  and  the  wide  view. 
Again  the  extent  of  his  deformity  became  arrestingly  apparent  to 
Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

"  Has  this  woman  ever  been  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes — she  has  been  here." 

"  And  then  ?     And  then  ?  "  Helen  cried. 

The  young  man  looked  up  at  her,  his  face  keen  yet  impassive, 
his  eyes — as  windows  opening  onto  endless  perspectives  of  empty 
space — telling  nothing.  She  recognised,  once  again,  that  he  was 
very  strong.  She  also  recognised  that,  notwithstanding  his 
strength,  he  was  horribly  sad. 

"Ah!  then,"  he  said,  "the  last  of  the  poor,  little,  subjective 
supports  and  consolations  seemed  in  danger  of  going  overboard 
and  joining  their  fellows  in  the  uneasy  deeps  of  the  sea. — But  the 
history  of  that  will  keep  till  a  more  convenient  season.  Cousin 
Helen.  You  have  stood  in  the  mid-day  sun,  and  I  have  talked 
about  myself,  quite  long  enough.  However,  it  was  only  fair  to 
acquaint  you  with  the  limited  resources  in  the  way  of  society  and 
amusement  offered  by  your  present  dwelling.  There  are  horses 
and  carriages  of  course.  Give  what  orders  you  please.  Only 
remember  both  the  town  and  the  surrounding  country  are  pretty 
rough.  It  is  not  fit  for  a  lady  to  drive  by  herself.  Always  take 
your  own  man,  or  one  of  mine,  with  you  if  you  go  out.  I  hope 
you  won't  be  quite  intolerably  bored.  Ask  for  whatever  you 
want. — You  let  me  dine  with  you  ?     Thanks." 


CHAPTER  III 

HELEN'    UK    VALLOnBES    Al'PREHEXDS    VEXATIOU.S    COMPLICATIONS 

FOUR  gowns  lay  outspread  upon  the  indigo-purple,  em- 
broidered coverlet  of  the  bed.  The  after-glow  of  an  orange 
and  crimson  sunset  touched  the  folds  of  them,  ranged  upward  to 
the  vaultings  of  the  frescoed  ceiling,  and  stained  the  lofty  walls  as 
with  the  glare  of  a  furnace.  Sea-greens,  sea-blues,  died  in  the 
heat  of  it,  abashed  and  vanquished.  But  so  did  not  Madame 
de  Vallorbes'  white  lawn  and  \acc />eii^;ioir,  or  her  al)undant  hair, 
which  Zelie  Forestier — trim  of  figure,  and  sour  of  countenance — 
was  in  the  act  of  dressing.  These  caught  the  fiery  light  and  held 
it,  so  that  from  head  to  foot  Helen  appeared  as  an  image  of 
living  gold.  Sitting  before  the  toilet-table,  her  reflection  in  the 
great,  oval  mirror  pleased  her. 


396  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Which  shall  I  wear?" 

"  That  depends  upon  the  length  of  time  madame  proposes 
to  stay  here.  The  black  dress  might  be  worn  on  several 
occasions  with  impunity.  The  peacock  brocade,  the  eau  de  Nil, 
the  crocus  yellow,  but  once — twice  at  the  uttermost.  They  are 
ravishing  costumes,  but  wanting  in  repose.  They  are  unsuited 
for  frequent  repetition." 

Zelie's  lean  fingers  twisted,  puffed,  pinned,  the  shining  hair 
very  skilfully. 

"  I  will  put  on  the  black  dress." 

"  Relieved  by  madame's/arz/r^  of  pink  topaz?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  wear  the  pink  topazes." 

"  Then  it  will  be  necessary  to  modify  the  style  of  madame's 
coiffure.^'' 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time." 

Helen  took  a  hand-glass  from  the  table  and  leaned  forward 
in  the  low,  round-backed  chair — faithful  copy  of  a  fine  classic 
model.  She  wanted  to  see  the  full  glory  of  the  after-glow  upon 
her  profile,  upon  her  neck  and  bosom.  Thus  might  Cassiopeia, 
glass  in  hand,  in  her  golden  chair  sit  in  high  heaven  ! — Helen 
smiled  at  the  pretty  conceit.  But  the  glory  was  already  departing. 
Sea-blues,  sea-greens,  sad  by  contrast,  began  to  reassert  their 
presence  on  walls  and  carpet  and  hangings." 

"The  black  dress?     Madame  decides  to  remain  then?" 

As  she  spoke  the  lady's-maid  laid  out  the  jewels, — chains, 
bracelets,  brooches, — each  stone  set  in  a  rim  of  tiny  rose-knots 
of  delicate  workmanship.  As  she  fingered  them  little,  yellow- 
pink  flames  seemed  to  dance  in  their  many  facets.  Then 
the  after-glow  died  suddenly.  The  flames  ceased  to  dance. 
Helen's  white  garments  turned  livid,  her  neck  and  bosom  grey — 
and  that,  somehow,  was  extremely  unpleasing  to  Madame  de 
Vallorbes. 

"  Light  the  candles,"  she  said,  almost  sharply.  "  Yes,  I 
remain.  Do  hurry,  Zelie.  It  is  impossible  to  see.  I  detest 
darkness.  Hurry.  Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  stay  here  all 
night  ?  And  look — you  must  bring  that  chain  farther  forward. 
It  is  not  graceful.  Make  it  droop.  Let  it  follow  the  line  of  my 
hair  so  that  the  pendant  may  fall  there,  in  the  centre.  You  have 
it  too  much  to  the  right.  The  centre — the  centre — I  tell  you. 
There,  let  the  drop  just  clear  my  forehead." 

Thus  admonished  the  Frenchwoman  wound  the  jewels  in 
her  mistress'  hair.  But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  remained  dis- 
satisfied. The  day  had  been  one  of  uncertainty,  of  conflict- 
ing  emotions ;   and  Helen's  love  of  unqualified   purposes  was 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  397 

great.  Confusion  in  others  was  highly  diverting.  But  in  herself 
— no  thank  you  !  She  hated  it.  It  touched  her  self-confidence. 
It  endangered  the  absoluteness  of  her  self-belief  and  self- 
worship.  And  these  once  shaken,  small  superstitions  assaulted 
her.  In  trivial  happenings  she  detected  indication  of  ill-luck. 
Now  Zelie's  long,  narrow  face,  divided  into  two  unequal  portions 
by  a  straight  bar  of  black  eyebrow,  and  her  lean  hands  as 
reflected  in  the  mirror,  awoke  unreasoning  distrust.  They 
appeared  to  be  detached  from  the  woman's  dark-clothed  person, 
the  outlines  of  which  were  absorbed  in  the  increasing  dimness  of 
the  room.  The  sallow  face  moved,  peered,  the  hands  clutched 
and  hovered,  independent  and  unrelated,  about  Helen's  graceful 
head. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  more  candles,  Zelie  !  "  she  repeated.  "  You 
look  absolutely  diabolic  in  this  uncertain  light." 

"  In  an  instant,  madame.  I  am  compelled  first  to  fix  this 
curl  in  place." 

She  accomplished  the  operation  with  most  admired  delibera- 
tion, and  moved  away  more  than  once,  to  observe  the  effect,, 
before  finally  adjusting  the  hair-pin. 

"  I  cannot  but  regret  that  madame  is  unable  to  wear  her  hair 
turned  back  from  the  face.  Such  an  arrangement  confers  height 
and  an  air  of  spirituality,  which,  in  madame's  case,  would  be  not 
only  becoming  but  advantageous." 

Helen  skidded  the  hand-glass  down  upon  the  dressing-table,, 
causing  confusion  amid  silver -topped  pots  and  bottles,  en- 
dangering a  jar  of  hyacinths,  upsetting  a  tray  of  hair-pins. 

*'  Have  I  not  repeatedly  given  you  orders  never  to  allude  to 
that  subject?"  she  cried. 

The  maid  was  on  her  knees  calmly  collecting  the  scattered 
contents  of  the  tray. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  madame,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  sour 
impudence.  "Still,  it  must  ever  be  a  matter  of  regret  to  anyone 
truly  appreciating  madame's  style  of  beauty,  that  she  should  be 
always  constrained  to  wear  her  hair  shading  her  forehead." 

Modern  civilisation  imposes  restrictions  even  upon  the  most 
high-spirited.  At  that  moment  Madame  do  Vallorbes  was  ripe 
for  the  commission  of  atrocities.  Had  she  been — as  she  coveted. 
to  be — a  lady  of  the  Roman  decadence  it  would  have  gone 
hard  with  her  waiting-woman,  who  might  have  found  herself 
ordered  for  instant  execution  or  summarily  deprived  of  the 
organs  of  speech.  I5ut,  latter-day  sentiment  happily  forbidding 
such  active  expressions  of  ill-feeling  on  the  part  of  the  employer 
towards  the  employed,  Helen  was  forced  to  swallow  her  wrath, 


398  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

reminding  herself,  meanwhile,  that  a  confidential  servant  is 
either  most  invaluable  of  friends  or  most  dangerous  of  enemies. 
There  is  no  via  media  in  the  relation.  And  Zelie  as  an  enemy 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  She  could  not — displeasing  reflection 
— afford  to  (juarrel  with  Zelie.  The  woman  knew  too  much. 
Therefore  Madame  de  Vallorbes  took  refuge  in  lofty  abstraction  ; 
while  the  tiresome  uncertainties,  the  conflicting  inclinations  of 
the  past  day,  quick  to  seize  their  opportunity, — as  is  the  habit  of 
such  discourteous  gentry, — returned  upon  her  with  redoubled 
importunity  and  force. 

She  had  not  seen  Richard  since  parting  with  him  at  noon, 
the  enigmatic  suggestions  of  his  conversation  still  unresolved, 
the  alternate  resentment  at  his  apparent  indifference  and 
attraction  of  his  strong  and  somewhat  mysterious  personality  still 
vitally  present  to  her.  Later,  she  had  driven  out  to  Pozzuoli. 
But  neither  stone-throwing  urchins,  foul  and  disease-stricken 
beggars,  the  pale  sulphur  plains  and  subterranean  rumblings  of 
the  Solfaterra,  nor  stirring  of  nether  fires  therein  resident  by  a 
lanky,  wild-eyed  lad — clothed  in  leathern  jerkin  and  hairy,  goat- 
skin leggings — with  the  help  of  a  birch  broom  and  a  few  local 
newspapers,  served  effectually  to  rouse  her  from  inward  debate 
and  questioning.  The  comfortable,  cee-spring  carriage  might 
swing  and  sway  over  the  rough,  deep-rutted  roads  behind  the 
handsome,  black,  long-tailed  horses,  the  melodramatic-looking 
coachman  might  lash  stone-throwing  urchins  and  anathematise 
them,  their  ancestors  and  descendants,  alike,  to  the  third  and 
fourth  generation  in  the  vilest,  Neapolitan  argot,  Charles  might 
resort  to  physical  force  in  the  removal  of  wailing,  alms-demanding, 
vermin-eaten  wrecks  of  humanity,  but  still  Helen  asked  herself 
only — should  she  go  ?  Should  she  stay  ?  Was  the  game  worth 
the  candle?  Was  the  risk,  not  only  of  social  scandal,  but  of 
possible  ennui,  worth  the  projected  act  of  revenge  ?  And  worth 
something  more  than  that.  For  revenge,  it  must  be  owned, 
already  took  a  second  place  in  her  calculations.  Worth,  namely, 
the  enjoyment  of  possible  conquest,  the  humiliation  of  possible 
defeat  and  rejection,  by  that  strangely  coercive,  strangely  in- 
scrutable being,  her  cousin,  Dickie  Calmady? 

No  man  had  ever  impressed  her  thus.  And  she  returned  on 
her  thought,  when  first  seeing  him  upon  the  terrace  that  morning, 
that  she  might  lose  her  head.  Helen  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 
She,  of  all  women,  to  lose  her  head,  to  long  and  languish,  to 
entreat  affection,  and  to  be  faithful — heaven  help  us  !  faithful, 
could  it  ever  come  to  that? — like  any  sentimental  schoolgirl,  like 
— and  the  thought  turned  her  not  a  little  wicked — like  Katherine 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  399 

Calmady  herself !  And  then,  that  other  woman  of  whom  Richard 
had  told  her  with  a  cynical  disregard  of  her  own  claims  to 
admiration,  who  on  earth  could  she  be?  She  reviewed  those 
ladies  with  whom  gossip  had  coupled  Richard's  name.  Morabita, 
the  famous pri'wa  donna,  for  instance.  But  surely,  it  was  incon- 
ceivable that  mountain  of  fat  and  good-nature,  with  the  voice  of 
a  seraph,  granted,  but  also  with  the  intellect  of  a  frog,  could 
ever  inspire  so  fantastic  and  sublimated  a  passion  !  And  passing 
from  these  less  legitimate  affairs  of  the  heart — in  which  rumour 
accredited  Richard  with  being  very  much  of  a  pluralist — her  mind 
travelled  back  to  the  young  man's  projected  marriage  with  Lady 
Constance  Decies,  sometime  Lady  Constance  Quayle.  Re- 
membering the  slow,  sweet  baby-face  and  gentle,  heifer's  eyes, 
as  she  had  seen  them  that  day  at  luncheon  at  Brockhurst, 
nearly  five  years  ago,  she  again  laughed.— No,  very  certainly 
there  was  no  affinity  between  the  glorious  and  naughty  city  of 
Naples  and  that  mild-natured,  well-drilled,  little,  English  girl ! 
Who  was  it  then — who?  But,  whoever  the  fair  unknown  rival 
might  be,  Helen  hated  her  increasingly  as  the  hours  passed, 
regarding  her  as  an  enemy,  a  creature  to  be  exterminated,  and 
swept  off  the  board.  Jealousy  pricked  her  desire  of  conquest. 
An  intrigue  with  Richard  Calmady  offered  singular,  unique, 
attractions.  But  the  force  of  such  attractions  was  immensely 
enhanced  by  the  excitement  of  wresting  his  affections  away  from 
another  woman. 

Suddenly,  in  the  full  swing  of  these  meditations,  as  she 
reviewed  them  for  the  hundredth  time,  Zt^lie's  voice  claimed 
her  attention. 

"  I  made  the  inquiries  madame  commanded." 

"Well?"  Helen  said.  She  was  standing  fastening  clusters  of 
topaz  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

"The  servants  in  this  house  are  very  reserved.  They  are 
unwilling  to  give  information  regarding  their  master's  habits. 
I  could  only  learn  that  Sir  Richard  occupies  the  entresol. 
Communicating  as  it  does  with  the  garden,  no  doubt  it  is 
convenient  to  a  gentleman  so  afflicted  as  himself." 

Helen  bowed  herself  together,  while  the  black  lace  and  China- 
crape  skirt  slijjped  over  her  head.  Emerging  from  which 
temporary  eclipse,  she  said  : — 

"  But  do  [jcnple  stay  here  much  ?  Dors  my  cousin  entertain  ? 
That  is  what  I  told  you  to  find  out." 

"As  I  tell  madame,  the  servants  are  difficult  of  approach. 
They  are  very  discreet.  'J'hey  fear  their  master,  but  they  also 
adore    him.     Charles   can    obtain    little    more  information  than 


40O  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

myself.  But  he  infers  that  Sir  Richard,  when  at  the  villa,  lives 
in  retirement — that  he  is  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy.  There 
will  be  little  diversion  for  madame  it  is  to  be  feared  !  But  what 
would  you  have  ?  Even  though  one  should  be  young  and  rich 
ce  ne  serait  que  pen  amusant  d'etre  estropie,  d'etre  monstre  enfin  !  " 

Helen  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  little  sigh  of  content  when 
taking  a  final  look  at  herself  in  the  oval  glass.  The  soft, 
floating  draperies,  the  many  jewels,  each  with  its  heart  of  quick, 
yellow-pink  light,  produced  a  combination  at  once  sombre  and 
vivid.  It  satisfied  her  sense  of  artistic  fitness.  Decidedly  she 
did  well  to  begin  with  the  black  dress,  since  it  had  in  it  a  quality 
rather  of  romance  than  of  worldliness  !  Meanwhile  Zelie,  kneel- 
ing, straightened  out  the  folds  of  the  long  train. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  had  forgotten  also  to  inform 
madame  that  M.  Destournelle  has  arrived  in  Naples.  Charles, 
thinking  of  nothing  less  than  such  an  encounter,  met  him  this 
morning  on  the  quay  of  the  Santa  Lucia." 

Helen  wheeled  round  violently,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of 
those  carefully  adjusted  folds. 

"  Intolerable  man  ! "  she  cried.  "  What  on  earth  is  he  doing 
here?" 

"That,  Charles  naturally  could  not  inquire. — Will  madame 
kindly  remain  tranquil  for  a  moment  ?  She  has  torn  a  small  piece 
of  lace  which  must  be  controlled  by  a  pin.  Probably  monsieur 
is  still  en  voyage^  is  visiting  friends  as  is  madame  herself." 

A  sudden  distrust  [that  the  black  dress  was  too  mature,  that 
it  constituted  an  admission  of  departing  youth,  invaded  Helen. 
The  reflection  in  the  oval  mirror  once  more  caused  her 
discomfort. 

"Tell  Charles  that  I  am  no  longer  acquainted  with  M. 
Destournelle.     If  he  presumes  to  call  he  is  to  be  refused." 

Helen  set  her  teeth.  But  whether  in  anger  towards  her  dis- 
carded lover,  or  the  black  dress,  she  would  have  found  it  difficult 
to  declare.  Again  uncertainty  held  her,  suspicion  of  circumstance, 
and,  in  a  degree,  of  herself.  The  lady's-maid,  imperturbable, 
just  conceivably  impertinent  in  manner,  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

"There,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  secure  for  to-night,  if  madame 
will  exercise  a  moderate  degree  of  caution  and  avoid  abrupt 
movements.  Charles  says  that  monsieur  inquired  very  urgently 
after  madame.  He  appeared  dejected  and  in  weak  health.  He 
was  agitated  on  meeting  Charles.  He  trembled.  A  little  more 
and  he  would  have  wept.  It  would  be  well,  perhaps,  that 
madame  should  give  Charles  her  orders  regarding  monsieur 
herself." 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  401 

"You  should  not  have  made  me  wear  this  gown,"  Helen 
broke  out  inconsequently.  "  It  is  depressing,  it  is  hideous.  I 
want  to  change  it." 

"  Impossible.  Madame  is  already  a  little  late,  and  there  is 
nothing  wrong  with  the  costume.  Madame  looks  magnificent. 
Also  her  wardrobe  is,  at  present,  limited.  The  evening  dresses 
will  barely  suffice  for  a  stay  of  a  week,  and  it  is  not  possible  for 
me  to  construct  a  new  one  under  ten  days." 

Thereupon  an  opening  of  doors  and  voice  from  the  ante- 
room, announcing : — 

"  Dinner  is  served,  my  lady.  Sir  Richard  is  in  the  dining- 
room." 

And  Helen  swept  forward,  somewhat  stormy  and  Cassandra- 
like in  her  dusky  garments.  Passing  out  through  the  high 
narrow  doorway,  she  turned  her  head. 

"  Charles,  under  no  circumstance — none,  understand — am  I 
at  home  to  Monsieur  Destournelle." 

"Very  good,  my  lady,"  and,  as  he  closed  the  double-doors, 
the  man-servant  looked  at  the  lady's-maid  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek. 

But,  on  the  journey  through  the  noble  suite  of  rooms,  Helen's 
spirits  revived  somewhat.  Her  fair  head,  her  warm  glancing 
jewels,  her  graceful  and  measured  movements,  as  given  back  by 
many  tall  mirrors,  renewed  her  self-confidence.  She  too  must  be 
fond  of  her  own  image,  by  the  way,  that  unknown  rival  to  the 
dream  of  whose  approval  Richard  Calmady  had  consecrated  these 
splendid  furnishings — witness  the  multiplicity  of  looking-glasses  ! — 
And  then  the  prospect  of  this  tete-d-tete  dinner,  the  interest  of  her 
host's  powerful  and  enigmatic  personality,  provoked  her  interest 
to  the  point  not  only  of  obliterating  remembrance  of  the  ill-timed 
advent  of  her  ex-lover,  but  of  inducing  something  as  closely  akin 
to  self-forgetfulness  as  was  possible  to  her  self-centred  nature. 
She  grew  hotly  anxious  to  obtain,  to  charm — if  it  might  bo  to 
usurp  the  whole  field  of  Richard's  attention  and  imagination. 

A  small  round  table  showed  as  an  island  of  tender  light 
in  the  dimness  of  the  vast  room.  And  Richard,  sitting 
at  it  awaiting  her  coming,  appeared  more  nearly  related  to 
the  Richard  of  Brockhurst  and  of  five  years  ago  than  he  had 
done  during  the  interview  of  the  morning.  In  any  case,  she 
look  him  more  for  granted.  While  he,  if  still  inscrutable  and 
unsmiling,  proved  an  eminently  agreeable  companion,  ready  of 
conversation,  very  much  at  his  ease,  very  much  a  cultivated  man 
of  the  world,  studious — a  little  excessively  so,  she  thought — in 
his  avoidance  of  the  pergonal  note.  And  this  at  once  piqued 
26 


402  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Helen,  and  incited  her  to  intellectual  effort.  If  this  was  what  he 
wanted,  well,  he  should  have  it !  If  he  elected  to  talk  of  travel, 
of  ancient  and  alien  religions,  of  modern  literature  and  art,  she 
could  meet  him  more  than  half  way.  Her  intelligence  ran  nimbly 
from  subject  to  subject,  from  point  to  point.  She  struck  out 
daring  hypotheses,  indulged  in  ingenious  paradox,  her  mind 
charmed  by  her  own  eloquence,  her  body  comforted  by  costly 
wines  and  delicate  meats.  Nor  did  she  fail  to  listen  also,  knowing 
how  very  dear  to  every  man  is  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  or 
omit  to  offer  refined  flattery  of  quick  agreement  and  seasonable 
laughter.     It  was  late  when  she  rose  from  the  table  at  last. 

"I  have  had  a  delightful  dinner,"  she  said.  "Absolutely 
delightful.  And  now  I  will  encroach  no  longer  on  your  time 
or  good-nature,  Richard.  You  have  your  own  occupations,  no 
doubt.  So,  with  thanks  for  shelter  and  generous  entertainment, 
we  part  for  to-night." 

She  held  out  her  hand  smiling,  but  with  an  admirable  effect  of 
discretion,  all  ardour,  all  intimacy,  kept  in  check  by  self-respect 
and  well-bred  dignity.  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  enchanted 
with  the  reserve  of  her  own  demeanour.  Let  it  be  understood 
that  she  was  the  least  importunate,  the  least  exacting,  the  most 
adaptable,  of  guests ! 

Richard  took  her  outstretched  hand  for  the  briefest  period 
compatible  with  courtesy.  And  a  momentary  spasm — so  she 
fancied — contracted  his  face. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  Helen,"  he  said.  "  If  it  is  warm  let 
us  breakfast  in  the  pavilion  to-morrow.  Twelve — does  that  suit 
you  ?     Good-night." 

Upon  the  inlaid  writing-table  in  the  anteroom,  Helen  found 
a  long  and  impassioned  epistle  from  Paul  Destournelle. 
Perusal  of  it  did  not  minister  to  peaceful  sleep.  In  the  small 
hours  she  left  her  bed,  threw  a  silk  dressing-gown  about 
her,  drew  aside  the  heavy,  blue-purple  window  curtain  and 
looked  out.  The  sky  was  clear  and  starlit.  Naples,  and  its 
curving  lines  of  innumerable  lights,  lay  outstretched  below.  In 
the  south-east,  midway  between  the  two,  a  blood-red  fire  marked 
the  summit  of  Vesuvius.  While  in  the  dimly  seen  garden 
immediately  beneath  —  the  paved  alleys  of  which  showed 
curiously  pale,  asserting  themselves  against  the  darkness  of  the 
flower  borders,  and  otherwise  impenetrable  shadows  of  the  ilex 
and  cypress  grove — a  living  creature  moved,  black,  slow  of  pace, 
strange  of  shape.  At  first  Helen  took  it  for  some  strayed 
animal.  It  alarmed  her,  exciting  her  to  wildest  conjectures  as  to 
its  nature  and  purpose,  wandering  in  the  grounds  of  the  villa 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  403 

thus.  Then,  as  it  passed  beyond  the  dusky  shade  of  the  trees, 
she  recognised  it.  Richard  Calmady  shuffled  forward,  haltingly, 
to  the  terminal  wall  of  the  garden,  leaned  his  arms  on  it,  looking 
down  at  the  beautiful  and  vicious  city  and  out  into  the  night. 

Helen  da  Vallorbes  shivered — the  marble  floor  striking  up 
chill,  for  all  the  thickness  of  the  carpet,  to  her  bare  feet.  Her 
eyes  were  hard  with  excitement  and  her  breath  came  very  quick. 
Suddenly,  yielding  to  an  impulse  of  superstitious  terror,  she 
dragged  the  curtains  together,  shutting  out  that  very  pitiful  sight, 
and,  turning,  fled  across  the  room  and  buried  herself,  breathless 
and  trembling,  between  the  sheets  of  the  soft,  warm,  faintly 
fragrant  bed. 

"He  is  horrible,"  she  said  aloud,  "horrible!  And  it  has 
come  to  me  at  last.     It  has  come — I  love — I  love  ! " 


CHAPTER   IV 

"  MATKll    ADMIKABILIS  " 

" ''  I  ^HERE,  there,  my  good  soul,  don't  blubber  !   Hysterics 

J_  won't  restore  Lady  Calmady  to  health,  or  bring  Sir 
Richard  back  to  England,  home,  and  duty,  or  be  a  ha'porth  of 
profit  to  yourself  or  any  other  created  being.  Keep  your  tears 
for  the  first  funeral.  For  I  tell  you  plainly  I  shan't  be  surprised 
out  of  seven  days'  sleep  if  this  business  involves  a  visit  to  the 
churchyard  before  we  get  to  the  other  side  of  it." 

John  Knott  stood  with  his  back  to  the  Chapel-Room  fire,  his 
shoulders  up  to  his  ears,  his  hands  forced  down  into  the  pockets 
of  his  riding-breeches.  Without,  black-thorn  winter  held  the 
land  in  its  cheerless  grasp.  The  spring  was  late.  Night 
frosts  obtained,  followed  by  pallid,  half-hearted  sunshine  in  the 
early  mornings,  too  soon  obliterated  by  dreary,  easterly  blight. 
This  afternoon  offered  exception  to  the  rule  only  in  the 
additional  discomfort  of  small,  sleeting  rain  and  a  harsh  skirling 
of  wind  in  the  eastward-facing  casements. — "Livery  wcatlier," 
the  doctor  called  it,  putting  down  his  existing  lajjse  from  philo- 
sophic tolerance  to  insufficient  secretions  of  the  biliary  duct. 

Before  him  stf)od  Clara — sometime  Dickie  Calniady's  devoted 
nurse  and  playfcUow^ — her  eyes  very  bright  and  moist,  the  reds 
and  whites  of  her  fresh  complexion  in  lamentable  disarray. 

"Pd  never  have  believed  it  of  Sir  Richard,"  she  asserted 
chokingly.      "It  isn't  like  him,  so   pretty  as  he  was  in  all  his 


404  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

little  ways,  and  loving  to  her  ladyship,  and  civilly  behaved  to 
everybody,  and  careful  of  hurting  anybody's  feelings — more  so 
than  you'd  expect  in  a  young  gentleman  like  him.  No  1  it  isn't 
like  him.  In  my  opinion  he's  been  got  hold  of  by  some  de- 
signing person,  who's  worked  on  him  to  keep  him  away  to  serve 
their  own  ends.  There,  I'd  never  have  believed  it  of  him,  that 
I  wouldn't ! " 

The  doctor's  massive  head  sank  lower,  his  massive  shoulders 
rose  higher,  his  loose  lips  twisted  into  a  snarling  smile. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  that's  nothing  new  !  We  none  of  us  ever 
do  believe  it  of  them  when  the  little  beggars  are  in  long  clothes, 
or  first  breeched  for  that  matter.  It's  a  trick  of  Mother  Nature's 
— one-idead  old  lady,  who  cares  not  a  pin  for  morality,  but  only 
for  increase.  She  knows  well  enough  if  we  did  believe  it  of 
them  we  should  clear  them  off  wholesale,  along  with  the  blind 
kittens  and  puppies.  A  bucket  full  of  water,  and  broom  to  keep 
them  under,  would  make  for  a  mighty  lessening  of  subsequent 
violations  of  the  Decalogue  !  Don't  tell  me  King  Herod  was 
not  something  of  a  philanthropist  when  he  got  to  work  on  the 
infant  population  of  Bethlehem.  One  woman  wept  for  each  of 
the  little  brats  then  ;  but  his  Satanic  Majesty  only  knows  how 
many  women  wouldn't  have  had  cause  to  weep  for  each  one  of 
them  later,  if  they'd  been  spared  to  grow  up." 

"While  speaking.  Dr.  Knott  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  his 
companion.  His  humour  was  none  of  the  gentlest  truly,  yet  he 
did  not  let  that  obscure  the  main  issue.  He  had  business  with 
Clara,  and  merely  waited  till  the  reds  and  whites  of  her  comely 
face  should  have  resumed  their  more  normal  relations  before 
pursuing  it.  He  talked,  as  much  to  afford  her  opportunity  to 
overcome  her  emotion,  as  to  give  relief  to  his  own.  Though 
now  well  on  the  wrong  side  of  sixty,  John  Knott  was  hale  and 
vigorous  as  ever.  His  rough-hewn  countenance  bore  even 
closer  resemblance,  perhaps,  to  that  of  some  stone  gargoyle 
carved  on  cathedral  buttress  or  spout.  But  his  hand  was  no 
less  skilful,  his  tongue  no  less  ready  in  denunciation  of  all  he 
reckoned  humbug,  his  heart  no  less  deeply  touched,  for  all  his 
superficial  irascibility,  by  the  pains,  and  sins,  and  grinding 
miseries,  of  poor  humanity,  than  of  old. 

"That's  right  now,"  he  said  approvingly,  as  the  heaving  of 
Clara's  bosom  became  less  pronounced.  "Wipe  your  eyes,  and 
keep  your  nerves  steady.  You've  got  a  head  on  your  shoulders 
— always  had.  Well,  keep  it  screwed  on  the  right  way;  for 
you'll  need  all  the  common  sense  that  is  in  it  if  we  are  to  pull 
Lady  Calmady  through.      Do  ? — To   begin  with  this,  give  her 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  405 

food  every  two  hours  or  so.  Coax  her,  scold  her,  reason  with 
her,  cry  even. — After  all,  I  give  you  leave  to,  just  a  little,  if  that  will 
serve  your  purpose  and  not  make  your  hand  shake — only  make 
her  take  nourishment.  If  you  don't  wind  up  the  clock  regularly, 
some  fine  morning  you'll  find  the  wheels  have  run  down." 

"But  her  ladyship  won't  have  anyone  sit  up  with  her." 

"  Very  well,  then  sleep  next  door.  Only  go  in  at  twelve  and 
two,  and  again  between  five  and  six. 

"  But  she  won't  have  anybody  occupy  the  dressing-room.  It 
used  to  be  the  night  nursery  you  remember,  sir,  and  not  a  thing 
in  it  has  been  touched  since  Sir  Richard  moved  down  to  the 
Gun-Room  wing." 

"  Oh,  fiddle-de-dee  !  It's  just  got  to  be  touched  now,  then.  I 
can't  be  bothered  with  sentiment  when  it's  ten  to  one  whether  I 
save  my  patient." 

Again  sobs  rose  in  Clara's  throat.  The  poor  woman  was  hard 
pressed.  But  that  fixed  gaze  from  beneath  the  shaggy  eyebrows 
was  upon  her,  and,  with  quaint  gurglings,  she  fought  down  the 
sobs. 

"My  lady's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,"  she  said,  "and  I'd  give  the 
last  drop  of  my  blood  for  her.  But  talk  of  managing  her,  of 
making  her  do  anything,  as  well  try  to  manage  the  wind,  she's 
that  set  in  her  ways  and  obstinate  ! " 

"If  you  can't  manage  her,  who  can? — Mr.  March?" 

Clara  shook  her  head.  Then  reluctantly,  for  though  honestly 
ready  to  lay  down  her  life  for  her  mistress,  she  found  it  far  from 
easy  to  invite  supersession  in  respect  of  her,  she  said: — "Miss 
St.  Quentin's  more  likely  to  get  round  my  lady  than  anyone 
else." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  talk  to  her.     Where  is  Miss  St.  Quentin?" 

"Here,  Dr.  Knott.     Do  you  want  me?" 

Honoria  had  strolled  into  the  room  from  the  stairhead,  her 
attention  arrested  by  the  all-too-familiar  sound — since  sorrow- 
ful hai)penings  often  of  late  had  brought  him  to  Brockhurst — of 
the  doctor's  voice.  The  skirt  of  the  young  lady's  habit,  gathered 
up  in  her  left  hand,  displayed  a  slightly  unconventional  length 
of  muddy  riding  boot.  The  said  skirt,  her  tan,  covert  coat,  and 
slouched,  felt  hat,  were  furred  with  wet.  Her  garments,  indeed, 
showed  evident  traces  of  hard  service,  and,  though  notably  well 
cut,  were  far  from  new  or  smart.  They  were  sad-coloured, 
moreover,  as  is  the  fashion  of  garments  designed  for  work.  And 
this  weather-stained,  mud-bespattered  costume,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  her  pale,  sensitive  face,  her  gallant  bearing,  and  the 
luminous  smile  with  which  .she  greeted  not  only  Dr.  Knott  but 


406  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  slightly  flustered  Clara,  offered  a  picture  pensive  in  tone, 
but  very  harmonious,  and  of  a  singularly  sincere  and  restful 
quality.  To  all,  indeed,  save  those  troubled  by  an  accusing 
conscience  and  fear  of  detection,  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  presence 
brought  a  sense  of  security  and  reassurance  at  this  period  of  her 
development.  Her  enthusiasms  remained  to  her  ;  but  they  were 
tempered  by  a  wider  experience  and  a  larger  charity — at  least  in 
the  majority  of  cases. 

"  I'm  in  a  beastly  mess,"  she  observed  casually. 

"  So  are  we,"  Knott  answered. — He  had  a  great  liking  for 
this  young  lady,  finding  in  her  a  certain  stoicism  along  with  a 
quickness  of  practical  help.  "  But  our  mess  is  worse  than  yours, 
in  that  it  is  internal  rather  than  external.  Yours  '11  brush  off. 
Not  so  ours — eh,  Clara.?  There,  you  can  go.  I'll  talk  things 
over  with  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  she'll  talk  'em  over  with  you 
later." 

Honoria's  expression  had  grown  anxious.  She  spoke  in  a 
lower  tone  of  voice. 

"  Is  Lady  Calmady  worse  ?  " 

"  In  a  sense,  yes — simply  because  she  is  no  better.  And 
she's  ill,  I  tell  you,  just  as  dangerously  ill  as  any  woman  can 
be  who  has  nothing  whatever  actually  the  matter  with  her." 

"  Except  an  only  son,"  put  in  Honoria.  "  I  am  beginning  to 
suspect  that  is  about  the  most  deadly  disease  going.  The  only 
thing  to  be  said  in  its  favour  is  that  it  is  not  infectious." 

John  Knott  could  not  quite  keep  admiration  from  his  eyes, 
or  provocation  from  his  tongue.  He  richly  enjoyed  getting  a 
rise  out  of  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said.  "In  the  case  of 
beautiful  women,  judging  by  history,  it  has  shown  a  tendency 
to  be  recurrently  sporadic  in  any  case." 

"  Recommend  all  such  to  spend  a  few  months  at  Brockhurst 
then,  under  existing  circumstances  ! "  Honoria  answered.  "  There 
will  be  very  little  fear  for  them  after  that ;  they  will  have  received 
such  a  warning,  swallowed  such  an  antidote ! — It  is  like  assisting 
at  the  infliction  of  slow  torture.  It  almost  gets  on  one's  brain 
at  times." 

"  Why  do  you  stay  on  then  ?  " 

Honoria  looked  down  at  her  muddy  boots  and  then  across 
at  the  doctor.  She  was  slightly  the  taller  of  the  two,  for  in 
these  days  his  figure  had  fallen  together  and  he  had  taken 
to  stooping.  Her  expression  had  a  delightful  touch  of  self 
depreciation. 

"Why  does  anyone  stay  by  a  sinking  ship,  or  volunteer  for 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  407 

a  forlorn  hope  ?  Why  do  you  sit  up  all  night  with  a  case  of 
confluent  smallpox,  or  suck  away  the  poisonous  membrane  from 
a  diphtheritic  throat,  as  I  hear  you  did  only  last  week  ?  I  don't 
know.  Just  because,  if  we  are  made  on  certain  lines,  we  have 
to,  I  suppose.  One  would  be  a  trifle  too  much  ashamed  to  be 
seen  in  one's  own  company,  afterwards,  if  one  deserted.  It  really 
requires  less  pluck  to  stick  than  to  run — that's  the  reason  prob- 
ably.— But  about  dear  Lady  Calmady.  The  excellent  Clara 
was  in  tears.  Is  there  any  fresh  mischief  over  and  above  the 
only  son  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present.  But  it's  an  open  question  how  soon  there 
may  be. — Good-day,  Mr.  March.  Been  riding?  Ought  to  be 
a  bit  careful  of  that  cranky  chest  of  yours  in  this  confounded 
weather. — Lady  Calmady?  —  Yes,  as  I  was  telling  Miss  St. 
Quentin,  her  strength  is  so  reduced  that  complications  may 
arise  any  day.  A  chill,  and  her  lungs  may  go,  a  shock,  and 
her  heart.  It  comes  to  a  mere  question  of  the  point  of  least 
resistance.  I  won't  guarantee  the  continued  soundness  of  any  one 
organ  unless  we  get  changed  conditions,  a  let  up  of  some  sort." 

The  doctor  looked  up  from  under  his  eyebrows,  first  at 
Honoria  and  then  at  Julius.  He  spoke  bitterly,  defiant  of  his 
inclination  towards  tenderness. 

"She's  just  worn  herself  out,"  he  said,  "that's  the  fact,  in 
the  service  of  others,  loving,  giving,  attempting  the  impossible 
in  the  way  of  goodness  all  round.  '  Be  not  righteous  over 
much' — there's  a  text  to  that  effect  in  the  Scriptures,  Mr. 
March,  isn't  there  ?  Preach  a  good,  rattling  sermon  on  it  next 
Sunday  to  Lady  Calmady,  if  you  want  to  keep  her  here  a  bit 
longer.  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum.  Granted.  But  nature  abhors 
excess,  even  of  virtue.  And  punishes  it  just  as  harshly  as  excess 
of  vice. — Yes,  I  tell  you,  she's  worn  herself  out." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  dropped  into  a  chair  and  sat  bowed 
together,  her  hands  on  her  knees,  her  feet  rather  far  apart. 
The  brim  of  her  hat,  pulled  down  in  front  to  let  the  rain  run 
off,  partially  concealed  her  face.  She  was  not  sorry,  for  a  move- 
ment of  defective  courage  was  upon  her,  evidence  of  which  she 
preferred  to  keep  to  herself  Julius  March  remained  silent.  And 
this  she  resented  slightly,  for  she  badly  wanted  somebody  to  say 
something,  either  vindictive  or  consolatory.  Then,  indignation 
getting  the  better  alike  of  rctict^nre  and  charity,  she  exclaimed  : — 

"  It  is  unpardonable.  It  ought  to  be  impossible  one  person 
should  have  power  to  kill  another  by  inches,  like  this,  with 
ini]ninity." 

Ludovic  Quayle  had  sauntered   into  the  room  behind  Julius 


408  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

March.  He  too  was  wet  and  dirty,  but  such  trifles  in  no  wise 
affected  the  completeness  of  his  urbanity.  His  long  neck 
directed  forward,  as  in  polite  inquiry,  he  advanced  to  the 
little  group  by  the  fire,  and  took  up  his  station  beside  Honoria's 
chair. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  asked  sweetly, 
"  but  why  the  allusions  to  murder  ?     What  is  unpardonable  ?  " 

"  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  conduct,"  she  answered  shortly. 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  addressed  Dr.  Knott.  "  It  is  so 
detestably  unjust.  What  possible  quarrel  has  he  with  her,  after 
all?" 

"  Ah  !  that — that — lies  very  deep.  A  thing,  perhaps,  only 
a  man,  or  a  mother,  can  quite  comprehend,"  the  doctor  answered 
slowly. 

Honoria's  straight  eyebrows  drew  together.  She  objected 
to  extenuating  circumstances  in  this  connection,  yet,  as  she  ad- 
mitted, reason  usually  underlay  all  Dr.  Knott's  statements.  She 
divined,  moreover,  that  reason  just  now  touched  upon  matters 
inconveniently  intimate.  She  abstained,  therefore,  from  protest 
or  comment.  But,  since  feminine  emotion,  even  in  the  least 
weakly  of  the  sex,  is  bound  to  find  an  outlet,  she  turned  upon 
poor  Mr.  Quayle. 

"He  is  your  friend,"  she  said.  "The  rest  of  us  are  help- 
less. You  ought  to  take  measures.  You  ought  to  suggest  a 
remedy." 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  the  young  man  answered. 
"But  you  may  remember  that  you  delivered  yourself  of  pre- 
cisely the  same  sentiments  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  And  that,  fired 
with  the  ardour  of  a  chivalrous  obedience,  I  fled  over  the  face 
of  the  European  continent  in  hot  pursuit  of  poor,  dear  Dickie 
Calmady." 

"  Poor,  dear  ! "  ejaculated  Honoria. 

"  Yes,  very  much  poor,  dear,  through  it  all,"  the  young  man 
affirmed.  "  Breathless,  but  still  obedient,  I  came  up  with  him 
at  Odessa." 

"What  was  he  doing  there?"  put  in  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Quayle  regarded  him  not  without  humour. 

"Really,  I  am  not  my  friend's  keeper,  though  Miss  St. 
Quentin  is  pleased  to  make  me  a  handsome  present  of  that 
enviable  office.  And  so — well — I  didn't  inquire  what  he  was 
doing.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  not  much  opportunity,  for 
though  I  found  him  charming, — yes,  charming.  Miss  St.  Quentin, 
— I  also  found  him  wholly  unapproachable  regarding  family  affairs. 
When,  with  a  diplomatic  ingenuity  upon  which   I    cannot   but 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  409 

congratulate  myself,  I  suggested  the  advisability  of  a  return  to 
Brockhurst,  in  the  civilest  way  in  the  world  he  showed  me  the 
door.  Impertinence  is  not  my  forte.  I  am  by  nature  humble- 
minded.  But,  I  give  you  my  word,  that  was  a  little  episode  of 
which  I  do  not  crave  the  repetition." 

Growling  to  himself,  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
John  Knott  shifted  his  position.  Then,  taken  with  that  desire 
of  clergy-baiting,  which  would  seem  to  be  inherent  in  members  of 
the  Faculty,  he  addressed  Julius  March. 

"Come  now,"  he  said,  "your  pupil  doesn't  do  you  an  over- 
whelming amount  of  credit  it  must  be  admitted,  still  you  ought 
to  be  able  to  give  an  expert's  opinion  upon  the  tendencies  of  his 
character.  How  much  longer  do  you  allow  him  before  he  grows 
tired  of  filling  his  belly  with  the  husks  the  swine  eat  ?  " 

"God  knows,  not  I,"  Juhus  answered  sadly,  but  without 
rancour.  "  I  confess  to  the  faithlessness  of  despair  at  times. 
And  yet,  being  his  mother's  son,  he  cannot  but  tire  of  it  eventu- 
ally, and  when  he  does  so  the  revulsion  will  be  final,  the 
restoration  complete  " — 

"He'll  die  the  death  of  the  righteous?  Oh  yes!  I  agree 
there,  for  there's  fine  stuff  in  him,  never  doubt  that.  He'll  end 
well  enough.  Only  the  beginning  of  that  righteous  ending,  if 
delayed  much  longer,  may  come  a  bit  too  late  for  the  saving  of 
my  patient's  life  and — reason." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  is  as  serious  as  all  that  ?  "  Ludovic  asked 
with  sudden  anxiety. 

"  Every  bit  as  serious  ! —  Oh  !  you  should  have  let  your  sister 
marry  him,  Mr.  Quayle.  Then  he  would  have  settled  down, 
come  into  line  with  the  average,  and  been  delivered  from  the 
morbid  sense  of  outlawry  which  had  been  growing  on  him — it 
couldn't  be  helped,  on  the  whole  he's  kept  very  creditably  sane 
in  my  opinion — from  the  time  he  began  to  mix  freely  in  general 
society.  I'm  not  very  soft  or  sickly  sentimental  at  my  time  of 
day,  but  I  tell  you  it  turns  my  stomach  to  think  of  all  he  must 
have  gone  through,  poor  chap.  It's  a  merciless  world,  Miss  St. 
Qucntin,  and  no  one  knows  that  better  than  we  case-hardened 
old  sinn<;rs  of  doctors. — Yes,  your  sister  should  have;  married 
him,  and  we  might  have  been  saved  all  this.  I  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  the  step  at  the  time.  But  I  was  a  fool.  I  see  now 
his  mother's  instinct  was  right." 

Mr.  Quayle  pursed  up  his  small  mouth  and  gently  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  a  delicate  subject  on  which  to  offer  an  opinion,"  he 
said.     "  I  debated  it  freely  in  the  privacy  of  my  inner  conscious- 


4IO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ness  at  the  time,  I  assure  you.  If  Lady  Calmady  had  lighted 
upon  the  right,  the  uniquely  right,  woman — perhaps — yes.  But 
to  shore  up  a  twenty-foot,  stone  wall  with  a  wisp  of  straw, — my 
dear  doctor,  does  that  proceeding  approve  itself  to  your  common 
sense  ?  And,  as  is  a  wisp  of  straw  to  such  a  wall,  so  was  my 
poor,  little  sister, — it's  hardly  flattering  to  my  family  pride  to 
admit  it, — but  thus  indeed  was  she,  and  no  otherwise,  to  Dickie 
Calmady." 

Whereupon  Honoria  glanced  up  gratefully  at  the  speaker, 
for  even  yet  her  conscience  pricked  her  concerning  the  part  she 
had  played  in  respect  of  that  broken  engagement.  While  John 
Knott,  observant  of  that  upward  glance,  was  once  again  struck 
by  her  manifest  sincerity,  and  the  gallant  grace  of  her,  heightened 
by  those  workmanlike  and  mud-bespattered  garments.  And,  being 
so  struck,  he  was  once  again  tempted  by,  and  once  again  yielded 
himself  to,  the  pleasures  of  provocation. 

"  Marry  him  yourself.  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  growled,  a  touch 
of  earnest  behind  his  raillery,  "marry  him  yourself  and  so  set 
the  rest  of  us  free  of  the  whole  pother.  I'd  back  you  to  handle 
him,  or  any  fellow  living,  with  mighty  great  success  if  you'd  the 
mind  to ! " 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  open  to  question  whether  that  very 
fair  fish  might  not  make  short  work  of  angler  as  well  as  of  bait. 
But  Honoria  relented,  refusing  provocation.  And  this  not  wholly 
in  mercy  to  the  speaker,  but  because  it  offered  her  an  opportunity 
of  reading  Mr.  Quayle  a,  perhaps  useful,  lesson.  Her  serious 
eyes  narrowed,  and  her  upper  lip  shortened  into  a  delightful 
smile. 

"  Hopeless,  Dr.  Knott !  "  she  answered.  "  To  begin  with  he'll 
never  ask  me,  since  we  like  each  other  very  royally  ill.  And  to 
end  with  " — she  carefully  avoided  sight  of  Mr.  Quayle — "  I — you 
see — I'm  not  what  you  call  a  marrying  man." 


CHAPTER   V 

EXIT    CAMP 

ABOUT  twenty  minutes  later  the  young  lady,  still  booted 
and  spurred,  opened  the  door  which  leads  from  the 
Chapel-Room  into  Lady  Calmady's  bed-chamber.  As  she  did  so 
a  gentle  w^armth  met  her,  along  with  a  sweetness  of  flowers. 
Within,  the  melancholy  of  the  bleak  twilight  was  mitigated  by 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  411 

the  soft  brightness  of  a  pink-shaded  lamp,  and  a  fitful  flickering 
of  firelight.  This  last,  playing  upon  the  blue-and-white,  Dutch 
tiling  of  the  hearth  and  chimney-space,  conferred  a  quaint  effect 
of  activity  upon  the  actors  in  the  biblical  scenes  thereon  depicted. 
The  patriarch  Abraham  visibly  flourished  his  two-inch  sword 
above  the  prostrate  form  of  hapless  Isaac.  The  elders  pranced, 
unblushingly,  in  pursuit  of  the  chaste  Susanna.  While  poor 
little  Tobit,  fish  in  hand,  clung  anxiously  to  the  flying  draperies 
of  his  long-legged,  and  all-too-peripatetic,  guardian  angel.  Such 
profane  vivacity,  on  the  part  of  persons  usually  accounted  sacred, 
offered  marked  and  almost  cynical  contrast  to  the  extreme  quiet 
otherwise  obtaining,  accentuated  the  absoluteness,  deepened  the 
depth,  of  it.  For  nothing  stirred  within  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  room,  nor  did  any  smallest  sound  disturb  the  prevailing 
silence.  At  these  southward-facing  casements  no  harsh  wind 
shrilled.  The  embroidered  curtains  of  the  state-bed  hung  in 
stiff,  straight  folds.  The  many-coloured  leaves  and  branches  of 
the  trees  of  the  Forest  of  This  Life  were  motionless.  Care,  the 
leopard,  crouched,  unobservant,  forgetful  to  spring ;  while  the 
Hart  was  fixed  spell-bound  in  the  midst  of  its  headlong  flight. 
A  spell  seemed,  indeed,  to  rest  on  all  things,  which  had  in  it 
more  than  the  watchful  hush  of  the  ordinary  sick-room.  It 
suggested  a  certain  moral  attitude — a  quiet,  not  acquiesced  in 
merely,  but  promoted. 

Upon  Honoria — her  circulation  quickened  by  recent  exercise, 
her  cheeks  still  tingling  from  the  stinging  sleet,  her  retina  still 
retaining  impressions  of  the  stern  grandeur  of  the  wide-ranging 
fir  woods  and  grey-brown  desolation  of  the  moors — this  extreme 
fjuiet  produced  an  extremely  disquieting  effect.  Passing  from 
the  Chapel-Room  and  the  society  of  her  late  companions — all 
three  persons  of  distinct  individuality,  all  three  possessing,  though 
from  very  differing  standpoints,  a  definitely  masculine  outlook 
orj  life — into  this  silent  bed-chamber,  she  seemed  to  pass  with 
startling  abruptness  from  the  active  to  the  passive,  from  the 
objective  to  the  subjective  side  of  things,  from  the  world  that 
creates  to  that  which  oljeys,  merely,  and  waits.  The  present  and 
masculine,  with  its  clear  practical  reason,  its  vigorous  purposes, 
was  exchanged  for  a  place  peopled  by  memories  only,  dedicated 
wholly  to  submissive  and  patient  endurance.  And  this  fell  in 
extremely  ill  with  llonoria's  f)r(.'sent  hiiinour;  while  the  some- 
what unseemly  antics  of  the  small,  scriptural  personages,  pictured 
upon  the  chimney-space  and  hearth,  troubled  her  imagination, 
in  that  they  added  a  point  of  irony  to  this  apparent  triumph  of 
the  remote  over  the  immediate,  of  tradition  over  fact. 


412  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Nor  as,  stung  by  unspoken  remonstrance,  she  approached 
Lady  Calmady  was  this  sense  of  intrusion  into  an  alien  region 
lessened  ;  or  her  appreciation  of  the  difficulties  of  the  mission  she 
had  been  deputed  by  doctor,  priest,  and  amiable,  young  fine- 
gentleman  —  her  late  companions  —  to  fulfil,  by  any  means 
lightened. 

For  Katherine  lay  back  in  the  great  rose-silk  and  muslin- 
covered  arm-chair,  at  right  angles  to  the  fireplace,  motionless, 
not  a  participant  merely,  so  it  seemed  to  the  intruder,  in  that 
all-embracing  quiet,  but  the  very  source  and  centre  of  it,  its 
nucleus  and  heart.  The  lines  of  her  figure  were  shrouded  in  a 
loose,  wadded  gown  of  dove-coloured  silk,  bordered  with  swans- 
down.  A  coif  of  rare,  white  lace  covered  her  upturned  hair. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  the  rim  of  the  eye-socket  being  very 
evident.  While  her  face,  though  smooth  and  still  graciously 
young,  was  so  emaciated  as  to  appear  almost  transparent. 
Now,  as  often  before,  it  struck  Honoria  that  a  very  exquisite 
spiritual  quality  was  present  in  her  aspect — her  whole  bearing 
and  expression  betraying,  less  the  languor  and  defeat  of  physical 
illness,  than  the  exhaustion  of  long  sustained  moral  effort,  followed 
by  the  calm  of  entire  self-dedication  and  renunciation  of  will. 

On  the  table  at  her  elbow  were  a  bowl  of  fresh-picked  violets 
and  greenhouse-grown  tea-roses,  some  books  of  the  hour,  both 
English  and  French,  a  miniature  of  Dickie  at  the  age  of  thirteen 
— the  proud,  little  head  and  its  cap  of  close-cropped  curls  show- 
ing up  against  a  background  of  thick-set  foliage.  On  the  table, 
too,  lay  a  well-worn,  vellum-bound  copy  of  that  holiest  of  books 
ever,  probably,  conceived  by  the  heart  and  written  by  the  hand  of 
man — Thomas  h.  Kempis'  Imitation  of  Christ.  It  was  open  at 
the  chapter  which  is  thus  entitled — ■"  Of  the  Zealous  Amendment 
of  our  Whole  Life."  While  close  against  it  was  a  packet  of 
Richard's  letters  —  those  curt,  businesslike  communications, 
faultlessly  punctual  in  their  weekly  arrival,  which,  while  they 
relieved  her  anxiety  as  to  his  material  well-being,  stabbed  his 
mother's  heart  only  less  by  the  little  they  said,  than  by  all  they 
left  unsaid. 

And  looking  upon  that  mother  now,  taking  cognisance  of  her 
surroundings,  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  young  indignation,  once 
again,  waxed  hot.  While,  since  it  was  the  tendency  of  her  mind 
to  run  eagerly  towards  theory,  to  pass  from  the  particular  to  the 
general,  and  instinctively  to  apprehend  the  relation  of  the 
individual  to  the  mass,  looking  thus  upon  Katherine,  she 
rebelled,  not  only  against  the  doom  of  this  one  woman,  but 
against  that  doom  of  universal  womanhood  of  which  she  offered. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  413 

just  now,  only  too  eloquent  an  example.  And  a  burning  com- 
passion animated  Honoria  for  all  feminine  as  against  all  masculine 
creatures ;  for  the  bitter  patience  demanded  of  the  passive,  as 
against  the  large  latitude  permitted  the  active  principle ;  for  the 
perpetual  humiliation  of  the  subjective  and  spiritual  under  the 
heavy  yoke  of  the  objective  and  practical ;  for  the  brief  joy  and 
long  barrenness  of  all  those  who  are  condemned  to  obey  and  to 
wait,  merely,  as  against  those  who  are  born  to  command  and 
to  create. 

From  a  child  she  had  been  aware  of  the  element  of  tragedy 
inherent  in  the  fact  of  womanhood.  It  had  quickened  exaggera- 
tions of  sentiment  in  her  at  times,  and  pushed  her  into  not  a 
little  knight-errantry, — witness  the  affair  of  Lady  Constance 
Quayle's  engagement.  But,  though  more  sober  in  judgment 
than  of  old  and  less  ready  to  set  her  lance  in  rest,  the  existence 
of  that  tragic  element  had  never  disclosed  itself  more  convinc- 
ingly to  her  than  at  the  present  moment,  nor  had  the  necessity 
to  attempt  the  assuaging  of  the  smart  of  it  called  upon  her  with 
more  urgent  voice.  Yet  she  recognised  that  such  attempt  taxed 
all  her  circumspection,  all  her  imaginative  sympathy  and  tact. 
Very  free  criticism  of  the  master  of  the  house,  of  his  sins  of 
omission  and  commission  alike,  were  permissible  in  the  Chapel- 
Room  and  in  the  presence  of  her  late  companions.  The  subject, 
unhappily,  had  called  for  too  frequent  mention,  by  now,  for  any 
circumlocution  to  be  incumbent  in  the  discussion  of  it.  But 
here,  in  the  brooding  quiet  of  this  bed-chamber,  and  in  Lady 
Calmady's  presence,  all  that  was  changed.  Trenchant  state- 
ments of  opinion,  words  of  blame,  were  proscribed.  The  sinner, 
if  spoken  of  at  all,  must  be  spoken  of  with  due  reticence  and 
respect,  his  wilfulness  ignored,  the  unloveliness  of  his  conduct 
gently,  even  eagerly,  explained  away. 

And,  therefore,  it  came  about  that  this  fair  champion  of  much- 
wronged  womanhood,  though  fired  with  the  zeal  of  righteous 
anger,  had  to  go  very  softly  and  set  a  watch  before  her  lips. 
I'.ut  as  she  paused,  fearful  to  break  in  too  abruptly  upon  Lady 
Calmady's  repose,  she  began  to  cjucstion  fearfully  whether  speech 
was,  in  truth,  still  available  as  a  means  of  comnuiriicalion  between 
herself  and  the  object  of  her  solicitude.  For  Lady  Calmady  lay 
so  very  still,  her  sweet  face  showed  so  transparent  against  the 
rose-silk,  muslin-covered  pillows,  that  the  younger  woman  was 
shaken  by  a  swift  dread  that  Dr.  Knott's  melancholy  predictions 
had  already  found  fulfilmrnt,  and  that  the  lovely,  labour-wasted 
body  had  already  let  the  valiant,  love-wasted  soul  depart. 

"  Cousin  Katherine,  dear  Cousin  Kathcrinc,"  she  called  very 


414  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

gently,  under  her  breath  ;  and  then  waited  almost  awestricken, 
sensible,  to  the  point  of  distress,  alike  of  the  profound  quiet, 
which  it  seemed  as  an  act  of  profanity  to  have  even  assayed 
to  break,  and  of  the  malign  activity  of  those  little,  scriptural 
figures  anticking  so  wildly  in  the  chimney-space  and  on  the 
hearth. 

Seconds,  to  Honoria  of  measureless  duration,  elapsed 
before  Lady  Calmady  gave  sign  of  life.  At  length  she  moved 
her  hands,  as  though  gathering,  with  infinite  tenderness,  some 
small  and  helpless  creature  close  and  warm  against  her  bosom. 
Honoria's  vision  grew  somewhat  blurred  and  misty.  Then,  with 
along-drawn,  fluttering  sigh,  Katherine  looked  up  at  the  tall, 
straight  figure. 

"  Dick — ah,  you've  come  in  !  My  beloved — have  you  had 
good  sport  ?  "  she  said. 

Honoria  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  bowing  her  head. 
"Alas,  alas,  it  is  only  me.  Cousin  Katherine.     Nothing  better 
than  me,  Honoria  St.  Quentin.     Would  that  it  were  someone 
better,"  and  her  voice  broke. 

But  Lady  Calmady  had  come  into  full  possession  of  herself. 
"My  dear,  I  must  have  been  dozing,  and  my  thoughts  had 
wandered  far  on  the  backward  road,  as  is  the  foolish  habit  of 
thoughts  when  one  grows  old  and  is  not  altogether  well  and 
strong." — Katherine  spoke  faintly,  yet  with  an  air  of  sweetly 
playful  apology.  "One  is  liable  to  be  confused,  under  such 
circumstances,  when  one  first  wakes — and — you  have  the  smell 
of  the  sleet  and  the  freshness  of  the  moors  upon  you."  She 
paused,  and  then  added  :— "But,  indeed,  the  confusion  of  sleep 
once  past,  I  could  hardly  have  anything  dearer  for  my  eyes  first 
to  light  on  than  your  very  dear  self." 

Hearing  which  gracious  words,  indignation  in  the  cause  of  this 
woman,  burning  compassion  for  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of 
universal  womanhood,  both  of  which  must  be  denied  utterance, 
worked  very  forcibly  in  Honoria.  She  bent  down  and  taking 
Lady  Calmady's  hand  kissed  it.  And,  as  she  did  this,  her  eyes 
were  those  of  an  ardent,  yet  very  reverent  lover,  and  so,  when 
next  she  spoke,  were  the  tones  of  her  voice. 

But  Katherine,  still  anxious  to  repair  any  defect  in  her  re- 
cognition and  greeting,  and  still  with  that  same  effect  of  playful 
self-depreciation,  spoke  first, 

"  I  had  been  reviewing  many  things,  with  the  help  of  blessed 
Thomas  h  Kempis  here,  before  I  became  so  drowsy.  The  dear  man 
lays  his  finger  smartly  upon  all  the  weak  places  in  one's  fancied 
armour  of  righteousness.     It  is  sometimes  not  quite  easy  to  be 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  415 

altogether  grateful  to  him.  For  instance,  he  has  pointed  out  to 
me  conclusively  that  I  grow  reprehensibly  selfish." 

"  Oh,  come,  come  ! "  Honoria  answered,  in  loving  raillery. 
"  Thomas  is  acute  to  the  point  of  lying  if  he  has  convinced  you 
of  that ! " 

"  Unhappily,  no,"  Katherine  returned.  "  I  know  it,  I  fear, 
without  any  pointing  of  Thomas's  finger.  But  I  rather  shirked 
admission  of  my  knowledge — well,  for  the  very  bad  reason  that  I 
wanted  very  badly  to  put  off  the  day  of  amendment.  Now  the  holy 
man  has  touched  my  witness  and  " —  she  turned  her  head  against 
the  pillows  and  looked  full  at  the  younger  woman,  while  her 
under-lip  quivered  a  little.  "  My  dear,  I  have  come  to  be  very 
greedy  of  the  comfort  of  your  companionship.  I  have  been 
tempted  to  consider  not  your  advantage,  but  solely  my  own. 
The  pointing  finger  of  Thomas  has  brought  it  home  to  me  that 
Brockhurst  and  I  are  feeding  upon  your  generosity  of  time,  and 
helpfulness,  to  an  unconscionable  extent.  We  are  devouring 
the  best  days  of  your  life,  and  hindering  you  alike  from  work 
and  from  pleasure.  It  must  not  be.  And  so,  my  dear,  I  beg 
you  go  forth,  once  more,  to  all  your  many  friends  and  to  society. 
You  are  too  young,  and  too  gifted,  to  remain  here  in  this  sluggish 
back-water,  alongside  a  derelict  like  me.  It  is  not  right.  You 
must  make  for  the  open  stream  again  and  let  the  free  wind  and 
the  strong  current  bear  you  gladly  on  your  appointed  course. 
And  my  gratitude  and  my  blessing  will  go  with  you  always.  But 
you  must  delay  no  longer.     For  me  you  have  done  enough." 

For  a  little  space  Honoria  held  her  friend's  hand  in 
silence. 

"  Are — are — you  tired  of  me  then  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  ! "  Katherine  exclaimed.  And  the  exclamation 
was  more  reassuring,  somehow,  than  any  denial  could  have 
been. 

"  After  all,"  Honoria  went  on,  "  I  really  don't  see  why  you're 
to  have  a  monopoly  of  faithfulness.  There's  selfishness  now,  if 
you  like — to  appropriate  a  virtue  en  bloc,  not  leaving  a  rag,  not 
the  veriest  scrajjpit  of  it  for  anybody  else  !  And  then,  has  it 
never  occurred  to  you,  that  I  may  be  just  every  bit  as  greedy  of 
your  companionship  as  you  of  mine — more  so,  I  fancy,  because 
— because  " — 

Honoria  bowed  her  head  and  kissed  the  hand  she  held,  once 
again. 

"You  see — I  know  it  sounds  as  if  I  was  rather  a  beast — 
perhaps  I  am — l)Ut  I  never  cared  for  anyone — really  to  care,  I 
mean — till  I  cared  lor  you." 


4i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  My  dear  !  " — Katherine  said  again,  wondering,  shrinking 
somewhat,  at  once  touched  and  almost  repulsed.  The  younger 
woman's  attitude  was  so  far  removed  from  her  own  experience. 

"  Does  it  displease  you  ?  Does  it  seem  to  you  unnatural  ?  " 
Honoria  asked  quickly. 

"A  little,"  Lady  Calmady  answered,  smiling,  yet  very 
tenderly. 

"AH  the  same  it's  quite  true.  You  opened  a  door,  some- 
how, that  had  always  been  shut.  I  hardly  believed  in  its 
existence.  Of  course  I  had  read  plenty  about  the — affections, 
shall  we  call  them  ?  And  had  heard  women  and  girls,  and  men, 
too,  for  that  matter,  talk  about  them  pretty  freely.  But  it  bored 
me  a  good  deal.  I  thought  it  all  rather  silly,  and  rather  nasty 
perhaps." — Honoria  shook  her  head.  "  It  didn't  appeal  to  me 
in  the  least.  But  when  you  opened  the  door  " —  she  paused,  her 
face  very  grave,  yet  with  a  smile  on  it,  as  she  looked  away  at  the 
little  figures  anticking  upon  the  hearth.  "Oh,  dear  me,  I  own  I 
was  half  scared,"  she  said,  "  it  let  in  such  a  lot  of  light ! " 

But,  for  this  speech,  Lady  Calmady  had  no  immediate  answer. 
And  so  the  quiet  came  back,  settling  down  sensibly  on  the  room 
again  —  even  as,  when  at  dawn  the  camp  is  struck,  the 
secular  quiet  of  the  desert  comes  back  and  possesses  its  own 
again.  And,  in  obedience  to  that  quiet,  Katherine's  hand 
rested  passively  in  the  hand  of  her  companion,  while  she  gazed 
wonderingly  at  the  delicate,  half-averted  face,  serious,  lit  up  by 
the  eagerness  of  a  vital  enthusiasm.  And,  having  a  somewhat 
sorrowful  fund  of  learning  to  draw  upon  in  respect  of  the  dangers 
which  all  eccentricity,  either  of  character  or  development,  inevit- 
ably brings  along  with  it,  she  trembled,  divining  that  noble  and 
strong  and  pure  though  it  was,  that  face,  and  the  temperament 
disclosed  by  it,  might  work  sorrow,  both  to  its  possessor  and 
to  others,  unless  the  enthusiasm  animating  it  should  find  some 
issue  at  once  large  and  simple  enough  to  engage  its  whole 
aspiration  and  power  of  work. 

But  abruptly  Honoria  broke  up  the  brooding  quiet,  laughing 
gently,  yet  with  a  catch  in  her  throat. 

"  And  when  you  had  let  in  the  light.  Cousin  Katherine,  good 
heavens,  how  thankful  I  was  I  had  never  married.  Picture  find- 
ing out  all  that  after  one  had  bound  oneself,  after  one  had  given 
oneself!  What  an  awful  prostitution." — Her  tone  changed  and 
she  stroked  the  elder  woman's  hand  softly.  "  So  you  see  you 
can't  very  well  order  me  off,  the  pointing  finger  of  Thomas 
notwithstanding.     You  have  taught  me  " — 

"Only  half  the  lesson  as  yet,"  Katherine  said.     "The  other 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  417 

half,  and  the  doxology  which  closes  it,  neither  I,  nor  any  other 
■woman,  can  teach  you." 

"You  really  believe  that?" 

"Ah!  my  dear,"  Katherine  said,  "I  do  more  than  believe. 
I  know  it." 

The  younger  woman  regarded  her  searchingly.  Then  she 
shook  her  charming  head. 

"  It's  no  good  to  arrive  at  a  place  before  you've  got  to  it,"  she 
declared.  "  And  I  very  certainly  haven't  got  to  the  second  half 
of  the  lesson,  let  alone  the  doxology,  yet.  And  then  I'm  so 
blissfully  content  with  the  first  half,  that  I've  no  disposition  to 
hurry.  No,  dear  Cousin  Katherine,  I  am  afraid  you  must  re- 
sign yourself  to  put  up  with  me  for  a  little  while  longer.  Your 
foes,  unfortunately,  are  of  your  own  household  in  this  affair.  Dr. 
Knott  has  just  been  holding  forth  to  us — Julius  March,  and  Mr. 
Quayle,  and  me — and  swearing  me  over  not  only  to  stay,  but  to 
make  you  eat  and  drink  and  come  out  of  doors,  and  even  to  go 
away  with  me.  Because — yes,  in  a  sense  your  Thomas  is  right 
with  his  pointing  finger,  though  he  got  a  bit  muddled,  good 
man,  not  being  quite  up-to-date,  and  pointed  to  the  wrong 
place  " — 

Honoria  left  her  sentence  unfinished.  She  knelt  down — her 
tall,  slender  figure,  angular,  more  like  that  of  a  youth  than  like  that 
of  a  maid,  in  her  spare,  mud-stained  habit  and  coat.  Impulsively 
she  put  her  hands  on  Lady  Calmady's  hips,  laid  her  head  in 
her  lap. 

"  Have  you  but  one  blessing,  oh!  my  more  than  mother?" 
she  cried.  "  Do  we  count  for  nothing,  all  the  rest  of  us — your 
household,  and  tenants  rich  and  poor,  and  Julius  the  faithful, 
and  Ludovic  the  bland,  and  that  queer  lump  of  sagacity  and 
ugliness,  John  Knott?  Why  will  you  kill  yourself?  Why  will 
you  die  and  leave  us  all,  just  because  one  person  is  perverse? 
'i'hat's  hardly  the  way  to  make  us — who  love  you — bear  with  and 
pity  him  and  welcome  him  home. — Oh  !  I  know  I  am  treading  on 
dangerous  ground  and  venturing  to  approach  very  close.  But  I 
don't  care — not  a  hang  !  We're  at  the  end  of  our  patience.  We 
want  you,  and  we  mean  to  have  you  back." 

Honoria  raised  herself,  knelt  bolt  upright,  her  hands  on 
the  arms  of  Lady  Calmady's  chair,  her  expression  full  of 
appeal. 

"Be  kind  to  us,  be  kind,"  she  said.     "We  only  ask  you, 

after  all,  to  eat  and  drink — to  let  Clara  take  care  of  you  at  night, 

and  let  me  do  so  by  day. — And  then,  when  you  are  stronger,  you 

must  come  away  with  me,  up  north,  to  Ormislon.     You  have  not 

27 


4i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

been  there  for  years,  and  its  grey  towers  are  rather  splendid  over- 
looking that  strong,  uneasy,  northern  sea.  It  stirs  the  Viking 
blood  in  one,  and  makes  that  which  was  hard  seem  of  less 
moment.  Roger  and  Mary  are  there,  too — will  be  all  this 
summer.  And  you  know  it  refreshed  you  to  see  them  last  year. 
And  if  we  go  pretty  soon  the  boys  will  be  at  school,  so  they 
won't  tire  you  with  their  racketing.  They're  jolly  monkeys, 
though,  in  my  opinion,  Godfrey  wants  smacking.  He  comes  the 
elder-brother  a  lot  too  much  over  poor,  little  Dick. — But  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  Oh  !  it's  for  you  to  get  out  of  the 
backwater  into  the  stream,  ten  times  more  than  for  me.  Dearest 
physician,  heal  thyself ! " 

But  Katherine,  though  deeply  touched  by  the  loving  ardour 
of  the  younger  woman's  appeal,  and  the  revelation  of  tenderness 
and  watchful  care,  constantly  surrounding  her,  which  that  appeal 
brought  along  with  it,  could  not  rouse  herself  to  any  immediate 
response.  Sternly,  unremittingly,  since  the  fair  July  night  when 
Richard  had  left  her  nearly  five  years  earlier,  she  had  schooled 
herself  into  unmurmuring  resignation  and  calm.  In  the  prosecu- 
tion of  such  a  process  there  must  be  loss  as  well  as  gain.  And 
Katherine  had,  in  great  measure,  atrophied  impulse  ;  and,  in  eradi- 
cating personal  desire,  had  come  near  destroying  all  spontaneity 
of  emotion.  She  could  still  give,  but  the  power  of  receiving 
was  deadened  in  her.  And  she  had  come  to  be  jealous  of 
the  quiet  which  surrounded  her.  It  was  her  support  and  solace. 
She  asked  little  more  than  not  to  have  it  broken  up.  She 
dreaded  even  affection,  should  that  strive  to  draw  her  from  the 
cloistered  way  of  life.  The  world,  and  its  many  interests,  had 
ceased  to  be  of  any  moment  to  her.  She  asked  to  be  left  to 
contemplation  of  things  eternal  and  to  the  tragedy  of  her  own 
heart.  And  so,  though  it  was  beautiful  to  know  herself  to  be 
thus  cherished  and  held  in  high  esteem,  that  beauty  came  to 
her  as  something  unrelated,  as  sweet  words  good  to  hear,  yet 
spoken  of  some  person  other  than  herself,  or  of  a  self  she  had 
ceased  to  be.  All  privilege  implies  a  corresponding  obligation, 
and  to  the  meeting  of  fresh  obligations  Katherine  felt  herself 
not  only  unequal,  but  indisposed.  And  so,  she  smiled  now  upon 
Honoria  St.  Quentin,  leaning  back  against  the  rose-silk  and 
muslin-covered  pillows,  with  a  lovely  indulgence,  yet  rather 
hopelessly  unmoved  and  remote. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,  I  am  beyond  all  wish  to  be  healed  after  the 
fashion  you,  in  your  urgent  loving-kindness,  would  have  me," 
she  said.  "  I  look  forward  to  the  final  healing,  when  my  many 
mistakes  and  shortcomings  shall  be  forgiven  and  the  smart  of 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  419 

them  removed.  And  I  am  very  tired.  I  do  not  think  it  can 
be  required  of  me  to  go  back." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  Honoria  replied. — She  rose  to  her  feet 
and  moved  across  to  the  fireplace,  her  straight  eyebrows  drawn 
together,  her  expression  one  of  perplexity.  "  I  must  seem  a 
brute  for  trying  to  drag  you  back.  When  Dr.  Knott,  and  the 
other  two  men,  asked  me  to  come  and  reason  with  you,  I  was 
on  the  edge  of  refusing.  I  hardly  had  the  heart  to  worry  you. 
And  yet,"  she  added  wistfully,  "after  all,  in  a  way,  it  is  just  simply 
your  own  dear  fault.  For  if  you  will  be  a  sort  of  little  kingdom 
of  heaven  to  us,  you  see,  it's  inevitable  that,  when  you  threaten 
to  slip  away  from  us,  we  should  play  the  part  of  the  violent  and 
do  our  best  to  take  our  kingdom  by  force  and  keep  it  in  spite 
of  itself." 

"  You  overrate  the  heavenliness  of  the  poor  little  kingdom," 
Katherine  said.  "  Its  soil  has  become  barren,  its  proud  cities 
are  laid  waste.  It's  an  unprofitable  place,  believe  me,  dearest 
child.  Let  it  be.  Seek  your  fortune  in  some  kingdom  from 
which  the  glory  has  not  departed  and  whose  motto  is  not 
Ichabodr 

"Unfortunately,  I  can't  do  that,"  the  younger  woman 
answered.  "  I've  explained  why  already.  Where  my  heart  is, 
there,  you  see,  my  kingdom  is  also." 

"  Ah !  my  dear,  my  dear,"  Katherine  said,  touched,  yet 
somewhat  weary. 

"And  after  all  it  is  not  wholly  for  our  own  sakes  we  make 
this  fight  to  keep  you." — Miss  St.  Quentin's  voice  sank.  She 
spoke  slowly  and  as  though  with  reluctance.  "We  do  it  for 
the  sake  of  the  person  you  love  best  in  the  world.  I  don't  say 
we  love  him  very  much,  but  that  is  beside  the  mark.  We  owe 
him  a  certain  duty — I,  because  I  am  living  in  his  house,  the 
others  because  they  are  his  friends.  When  he  comes  home — 
as  come  he  surely  will — they  all  say  that,  even  while  they  blame 
him — would  it  not  be  an  almost  too  cruel  punishment  if  he 
found  Brockhurst  empty  of  your  presence?  You  would  not 
wish  that.  It's  not  a  question  of  me,  of  course.  I  don't  count. 
]'>ut  you  gone,  no  one — not  even  the  old  servants,  I  believe — 
would  stay.  Blame  would  be  turned  into  something  awkwardly 
near  to  hatred." 

Lady  C'almady's  serenity  did  not  desert  her,  hut  a  touch  of 
her  old  loftiness  of  manner  was  apparent.  And  Miss  St. 
(^,)uentin  was  very  glad.  Anything,  even  anger,  would  be  welcome 
if  it  dissipated  that  unnatural,  paralysing  calm. 

"You  forget  Julius,  I  think,"  she  said.     "He  will  be  faithful 


420  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

to  the  very  end,  Haithful  unto  death.     And  so  will  another  friend 
of  happier  days,  poor,  blind,  old  Camp." 

A  sudden  inspiration  came  to  Honoria  St.  Quentin. 
"You   must   only  count    on    Julius,   I   am   afraid,    Cousin 
Katherine — not  on  Camp." 

And  to  her  immense  relief  she  perceived  Lady  Calmady's 
serenity  give  a  little.  It  was  as  though  she  came  nearer.  Her 
sweet  face  was  troubled,  her  eyes  full  of  questioning. 

"  Camp  grew  a  little  too  tired  of  waiting  about  three  weeks 
atio.     You  did  not  ask  for  him  " — 

"Didn't  I?"  Katherine  said,  smitten  by  self-reproach. 
"  Never  once — and  so  we  did  not  tell  you,  fearing  to  distress 
you." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  came  over  and  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the 
<;ofa  again.  She  rested  her  hands  on  her  knees.  Her  feet  were 
rather  far  apart.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  small  prophets 
and  patriarchs  anticking  upon  the  hearth. 

"  But  it  wasn't  really  so  very  bad,"  she  said  reflectively. 
"And  we  did  all  we  could  to  smooth  his  passage,  poor,  dear 
beast,  to  the  place  where  all  good  dogs  go.  We  had  the  vet 
out  from  Westchurch  two  or  three  times,  but  there  was  nothing 
much  he  could  do.  And  I  thought  him  a  bit  rough.  Nervousness, 
I  fancy.  You  see  the  dog  did  not  like  being  handled  by  a 
stranger,  and  made  it  rather  hot  for  him  once  or  twice.  I  could 
not  let  him  be  worried,  poor  old  man,  and  so  Julius  March, 
and  Winter,  and  I,  took  turn  and  turn  about  with  him." 
"Where  did  he  die?" 

"  In  the  Gun-Room,  on  the  tiger-skin." — Honoria  did  not 
look  round.  Her  voice  grew  perceptibly  husky.  "  Chifney  and 
I  sat  up  with  him  that  last  night." 

"  You  and  Chifney  ? "  Lady  Calmady  exclaimed,  almost  in 
protest. 

"  Yes.  Of  course  the  men  would  have  been  as  kind  as  kind 
could  be.  Only  I  had  a  feeling  you  would  be  glad  to  know 
I  was  there,  later,  when  we  told  you.  You  see  Chifney's  as 
good  as  any  vet,  and  I  had  to  have  somebody.  The  dog  was 
rather  queer.  I  did  not  quite  know  how  to  manage  him  alone." 
Lady  Calmady  put  out  her  hand.  Honoria  took  it  silently, 
and  fell  to  stroking  it  once  more.  It  was  a  declaration  of  peace, 
she  felt,  on  the  part  of  the  obstinate  well-beloved — possibly  a 
<ieclaration  of  something  over  and  above  peace. 

"Winter  saw  to  our  creature  comforts,"  the  young  lady 
continued.  "  Oh,  we  weren't  starved,  I  promise  you !  And 
Chifney  was  excellent  company." 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  421 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  He  told  me  endless  yarns  about  horses — about  Doncaster, 
and  Newmarket,  and  Goodwood.  I  was  greatly  flattered  at  being 
regarded  as  sufificiently  of  the  equestrian  order  to  hear  all  that. — 
And  he  told  me  stories  about  Richard,  when  he  was  quite  a  little 
boy — and  about  his  father  also." 

Honoria  had  a  conviction  the  tears  were  running  down  Lady 
Calmady's  cheeks,  but  she  would  not  look  round.  She  only 
stroked  the  hand  she  held  softly,  and  talked  on. 

"They  were  fine,"  she  said,  "some  of  those  stories.  I  am 
glad  to  have  heard  them.  They  went  home  to  me.  When  all 
is  said  and  done,  there  is  nothing  like  breeding  and  pluck,  and 
the  courtesy  which  goes  along  with  them.  But  after  midnight 
( "amp  grew  very  restless.  He  had  his  blanket  in  the  big  arm- 
chair— you  know  the  one  I  mean — as  usual.  But  he  wouldn't 
stay  there.  We  had  to  lift  him  down.  You  see  his  hindquarters 
were  paralysed,  and  he  couldn't  help  himself  much.  It  was 
pathetic.  I  can't  forget  the  asking  look  in  his  half-blind  eyes. 
But  we  couldn't  make  out  what  he  wanted.  At  last  he  dragged 
himself  as  far  as  the  door,  and  we  set  it  open  and  watched  him, 
poor,  dear  beast.  He  got  across  the  lobby  to  the  bottom  of  the 
little  staircase" — 

The  speaker's  breath  caugnt. 

"  Then  we  made  out  what  it  was.  He  wanted  to  get  up  here, 
to  come  to  you. — Well,  I  could  understand  that !  I  should  want 
just  that  myself,  shall  want  it,  when  it  comes  to  the  last.  He 
whimpered  when  Chifney  carried  him  back  into  the  Gun-Rooni." 

Honoria  turned  her  head  and  looked  Lady  Calmady  in  the 
face.  Her  own  was  more  than  commonly  white  and  very  gentle 
in  expression. 

"  He  died  in  the  grey  of  tne  morning,  with  his  great  head  on 
my  lap.  I  fancy  it  eased  him  to  have  something  human,  and — 
rather  pitiful — close  against  him.  Julius  had  just  come  in  to  see 
how  we  were  getting  on.  I  won't  declare  he  did  not  say  a  prayer 
— I  think  he  did.  But  I  wasn't  quite  as  steady  as  I  might  have 
been  just  then." 

She  turned  her  head,  looking  back  at  the  figures  upon  the 
hearth.  She  was  satisfied.  Lady  Calmady's  long-sustained  calm 
had  given  way,  and  she  wept. 

"We  buried  him,  in  his  blanket,  under  the  big  Portugal- 
laurel,  where  the  nightingale  sings,  at  the  corner  of  the  troco- 
ground,  close  to  Camp  the  Pirst  and  Old  Camp.  The  up[)er 
servants  came,  and  Chaplin  and  Hariburt  from  the  house-stables, 
and    Chifney  and    the   head-lad — and   some   of  the   gardeners- 


422  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Poor,  old  Wenhani  drove  up  in  his  donkey-chair  from  the  west 
lodge.  Julius  was  there,  of  course.  We  did  all  things  decently 
and  in  order." 

Honoria's  voice  ceased.  She  sat  stroking  the  dear  hand  she 
held  and  smiling  to  herself,  notwithstanding  a  chokiness  in  her 
throat,  for  she  had  a  comfortable  belief  the  situation  was  saved. 

Then  Clara  entered,  prepared  to  encounter  remonstrance, 
bearing  a  tray. 

"  It's  all  right,  Clara,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  said.  "  Lady  Calmady 
is  quite  ready  for  something  to  eat.  I've  been  telling  her  about 
Camp." 

And  Katherine,  sitting  upright,  with  great  docility  and  a 
certain  gentle  shame,  accepted  food  and  drink. 

"  Since  you  wish  it,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  and  since  Julius  must 
not  be  left  alone  in  a  quite  empty  house." 

"  Our  kingdom  of  heaven  stays  with  us  then  ? "  Honoria 
exclaimed  joyously. 

"Such  as  it  is — poor  thing — it  will  do  its  best  to  stay.  I 
thought  I  had  cried  my  eyes  dry  forever,  long  ago.  But  it 
seems  not.     You  and  Camp  have  broken  up  the  drought." 

**  I  have  not  hurt  you  ?  "  Honoria  said,  in  sudden  penitence. 

"  No,  no — you  have  given  me  relief.  I  was  ceasing  to  be 
human.     The  blessed  Thomas  was  right — I  grew  very  selfish." 

"  But  you're  not  displeased  with  me  ?  "  Honoria  insisted.  Lady 
Calmady's  playfulness  had  returned,  but  with  a  new  complexion. 

"Ah  !  it  is  a  little  soon  to  ask  that !  "  she  said.  "Still  I  will 
go  north  with  you  a  fortnight  hence — go  to  Ormiston.  And  by 
then,  perhaps,  you  may  be  forgiven.  Open  the  casement,  dearest, 
and  let  in  the  wind.  The  air  of  this  room  is  curiously  dead. 
Give  my  love  to  Julius  and  Ludovic.  Tell  them  I  will  come 
into  the  Chapel-Room  after  dinner  to-night. — What — my  child, 
are  you  so  very  glad? — Kiss  me. — God  keep  you. — Now  I  will 
rest." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN    WHICH    M.    PAUL    DESTOURNELLE    HAS    THE    BAD    TASTE    TO 
THREATEN    TO    UPSET    THE    APPLE-CART 

HELEN  DE  VALLORBES  rose  from  her  knees  and  slipped 
out  from  under  the  greasy  and  frayed  half-curtain  of  the 
confessional  box.  The  atmosphere  of  that  penitential  spot  had 
been  such  as  to  make  her  feel  faint  and  dizzy.     She  needed  to  re- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  423 

cover  herself.  And  so  she  stood,  for  a  minute  or  more,  in  the  clear, 
cool  brightness  of  the  nave  of  the  great  basilica,  her  highly-civiUsed 
figure  covered  by  a  chequer-work  of  morning  sunshine  streaming 
down  through  the  round-headed  windows  of  the  lofty  clere-storey. 
As  the  sense  of  physical  discomfort  left  her  she  instinctively 
arranged  her  veil,  and  adjusted  her  bracelets  over  the  wrists  of 
her  long  gloves.  Yet,  notwithstanding  this  trivial  and  mundane 
occupation,  her  countenance  retained  an  expression  of  devout 
circumspection,  of  the  relief  of  one  who  has  accomplished  a 
serious  and  somewhat  distasteful  duty.  Her  sensations  were 
increasingly  agreeable.  She  had  rid  herself  of  an  oppressive 
burden.  She  was  at  peace  with  herself  and  with — almost — all 
man  and  womankind. 

Yet,  it  must  be  admitted,  the  measure  had  been  mainly  pre- 
cautionary. Helen  had  gone  to  confession,  on  the  present 
occasion,  in  much  the  same  spirit  as  an  experienced  traveller 
visits  his  dentist  before  starting  on  a  protracted  journey.  She 
regarded  it  as  a  disagreeable,  but  politic,  insurance  against  possible 
accident.  Her  distaste  had  been  increased  by  the  fact  that  there 
really  were  some  rather  risky  matters  to  be  confessed.  She  had 
even  feared  a  course  of  penance  might  have  been  enforced  before 
the  granting  of  absolution — this  certainly  would  have  been  the 
case  had  she  been  dealing  with  that  firm  disciplinarian,  and  very 
astute  man  of  the  world,  the  Jesuit  father  who  acted  as  her 
spiritual  adviser  in  Paris.  But  here  in  Naples,  happily,  it  was 
different.  The  fat,  sleepy,  easy-going,  old  canon — whose  person 
exuded  so  strong  an  odour  of  snuff  that,  at  the  solemnest  moment 
of  the  cotifiteor,  she  had  been  unable  to  suppress  a  convulsive  sneeze 
— asked  her  but  few  inconvenient  questions.  Pretty  fine-ladies 
will  get  into  little  difficulties  of  this  nature.  He  had  listened  to 
very  much  the  same  story  not  infrequently  before,  and  took  the 
position  amiably,  almost  humorously,  for  granted.  It  was  very 
wicked,  a  deadly  sin,  but  the  flesh — specially  such  delicately  bred, 
delicately  fc-d,  feminine  flesh — is  admittedly  weak,  and  the  wiles 
of  Satan  are  many.  Is  it  not  an  historic  fact  that  our  first  mother 
did  not  escape  ? — Was  Helen's  repentance  sincere,  that  was  the 
point?  And  of  that  Helen  could  honestly  assure  him  there  was 
no  smallest  doubt.  Indeed,  at  this  moment,  she  abhorred,  not 
only  her  sin,  but  her  co-sinner,  in  the  liveliest  and  most  compre- 
hensive manner.  Return  to  him  ?  Sooner  the  dog  return  to  its 
vomit !  She  recognised  the  ini(|uity,  the  shame,  the  detestable 
folly,  of  her  late  proceedings  far  loo  clearly.  Temptation  in  that 
direction  had  ceased  to  be  possible. 

Then  followed  the  mysterious  and  merciful  words  of  absolu- 


424  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tion.  And  Helen  rose  from  her  knees  and  slipped  out  from 
beneath  the  frayed  and  greasy  curtain  a  free  woman,  the  guilt  of 
her  adultery  wiped  off  by  those  awful  words,  as,  with  a  wet  cloth, 
one  would  wipe  writing  off  a  slate  leaving  the  surface  of  it  clean 
in  every  part.  Precisely  how  far  she  literally  believed  in  the 
efficacy  of  that  most  solemn  rite  she  would  not  have  found  it 
easy  to  declare.  Scepticism  warred  with  expediency.  But  that 
appeared  to  her  beside  the  mark.  It  was  really  none  of  her 
business.  Let  her  teachers  look  to  all  that.  To  her  it  was 
sufficient  that  she  could  regard  it  from  the  practical  standpoint 
of  an  insurance  against  possible  accident — the  accident  of  sin 
proving  actually  sinful  and  actually  punishable  by  a  narrow- 
minded  deity ;  the  accident  of  the  veritable  existence  of  heaven 
and  hell,  and  of  Holy  Church  veritably  having  the  keys  of  both 
these  in  her  keeping ;  the  accident — more  immediately  probable 
and  consequently  worth  guarding  against — that,  during  wakeful 
hours,  some  night,  the  half-forgotten  lessons  of  the  convent  school 
would  come  back  on  her,  and,  as  did  sometimes  happen,  would 
prove  too  much  for  her  usually  victorious  audacity. 

But,  it  should  be  added  that  another  and  more  creditable 
instinct  did  much  to  dictate  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  action  at  this 
juncture.  As  the  days  went  by  the  attraction  exercised  over  her 
by  Richard  Calmady  suffered  increase  rather  than  diminution. 
And  this  attraction  affected  her  morally,  producing  in  her 
modesties,  reticencies  of  speech,  even  of  thought,  and  prickings 
of  unflattering  self-criticism  unknown  to  her  heretofore.  Her 
ultimate  purpose  might  not  be  virtuous.  But  undeniably,  such  is 
the  complexity — not  to  say  hypocrisy — of  the  human  heart,  the 
prosecution  of  that  purpose  developed  in  her  a  surprising  sensi- 
bility of  conscience.  Many  episodes  in  her  career,  hitherto 
regarded  as  entertaining,  she  ceased  to  view  with  toleration, 
let  alone  complacency.  The  remembrance  of  them  made  her 
nervous.  What  if  Richard  came  to  hear  of  them  ?  The  effect 
might  be  disastrous.  Not  that  he  was  any  saint;  but  she 
perceived  that,  with  the  fine  inconsistency  common  to  most  well- 
bred  Englishmen,  he  demanded  from  the  women  of  his  family 
quite  other  standards  of  conduct  to  those  which  he  himself 
obeyed.  Other  women  might  do  as  they  pleased.  Their  lapses 
from  the  stricter  social  code  were  no  concern  of  his.  He  might, 
indeed,  be  not  wholly  averse  to  profiting  by  such  lapses.  But  in 
respect  of  the  women  of  his  own  rank  and  blood  the  case  was 
quite  otherwise.  He  was  alarmingly  capable  of  disgust.  And,  not 
a  little  to  her  own  surprise,  fear  of  provoking,  however  slightly, 
that  disgust  had  become  a  reigning  power  with  her.     Never  had 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  425 

she  felt  as  she  now  felt.  Her  own  sensations  at  once  captivated 
and  astonished  her.  This  had  ceased  to  be  an  adventure  dictated 
by  merry  devilry,  undertaken  out  of  lightness  of  heart,  inspired 
by  a  mischievous  desire  to  see  dust  whirl  and  straws  fly ;  or 
undertaken  even  out  of  necessity  to  support  self-satisfaction  by 
ranging  herself  with  cynical  audacity  on  the  side  of  the  eternal 
laughter.  This  was  serious.  It  was  desperate — the  crisis,  as 
she  told  herself,  of  her  life  and  fate.  The  result  was  singular. 
Never  had  she  been  more  vividly,  more  electrically,  alive.  Never 
had  she  been  more  diffident  and  self-distrustful. 

And  this  complexity  of  sensation  served  to  press  home  on 
her  the  high  desirability  of  insurance  against  accident,  of  washing 
clean,  as  far  as  might  be  possible,  the  surface  of  the  slate.  So  it 
followed  that  now,  standing  in  the  che(|uer-work  of  sunshine 
within  the  great  basilica,  self-congratulation  awoke  in  her.  The 
lately  concluded  ceremony,  some  of  the  details  of  which  had 
really  been  most  distasteful,  might  or  might  not  be  of  vital 
efficacy,  but,  in  any  case,  she  had  courageously  done  her  part. 
Therefore,  if  Holy  Church  spoke  truly,  her  first  innocence  was 
restored.  Helen  hugged  the  idea  with  almost"  childish  satisfac- 
tion. Now  she  could  go  back  to  the  Villa  Vallorbes  in  peace, 
and  take  what  measures — 

She  left  the  sentence  unfiinished.  Even  in  thought  it  is  often 
an  error  to  define.  Let  the  future  and  her  intentions  regarding 
it  remain  in  the  vague  !  She  signed  to  Zelie  Forestier — seated 
on  the  steps  of  a  side-chapel,  yellow-paper-covered  novel  in 
hand — to  follow  her.  And,  after  making  a  genuflexion  before  the 
altar  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  gathered  up 
her  turfjuoise-coloured  skirts — the  yellow-tufa  quarries  were  not 
superabundantly  clean — and  pursued  her  way  towards  the  great 
main  door.  The  benevolent  priest,  charmed  by  her  grace  of 
movement,  watched  her  from  his  place  in  the  confessional,  although 
another  penitent  now  kneeled  within  the  greasy  curtain. — Verily 
the  delinquencies  of  so  delectable  a  piece  of  womanhood  were 
easily  compn.-hensible  !  Ncith(;r  God  nor  man,  in  such  a  case, 
would  be  extreme  to  mark  what  was  done  amiss.  Moreover, 
had  she  not  promised  generous  gifts  alike  to  church  and  poor  ? 
The  sin  which  in  an  ugly  woman  is  clearly  mortal,  in  a  pretty 
one  becomes  little  more  than  venial.  Making  which  reflection 
a  kindly,  fat  chuckle  shook  his  big  paunch,  and,  crossing  himself, 
he  turned  his  attention  to  the  voice  murmuring  from  behind  the 
wood«.'n  latlif.i;  at  his  side. 

Yet  it  would  a{)pcar  that  abstract  justice  judged  less  leniently 
of  the  position.     For,  passing  out  on  to  the  portico — about  the 


426  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

base  of  whose  enormous  columns  half-naked  beggars  clustered, 
exposing  sores  and  mutilations,  shrilly  clamouring  for  alms — the 
dazzling  glare  of  the  empty,  sun-scorched  piazza  behind  him, 
Helen  came  face  to  face  with  no  less  a  personage  than  M.  Paul 
Destournelle. 

It  was  as  though  someone  had  struck  her.  The  scene  reeled 
before  her  eyes.  Then  her  temper  rose  as  in  resentment  of 
insult.  To  avoid  all  chance  of  such  a  meeting  she  had  selected 
this  church  in  an  unfashionable  quarter  of  the  town.  Here,  at 
least,  she  had  reckoned  herself  safe  from  molestation.  And,  that 
precisely  in  the  hour  of  peace,  the  hour  of  politic  insurance 
against  accident,  this  accident  of  all  others  should  befall  her,  was 
maddening !  But  anger  did  not  lessen  her  perspicacity.  How 
to  inflict  the  maximum  of  discomfort  upon  M.  Destournelle 
with  the  minimum  of  risk  to  herself  was  the  question.  An  inter- 
view was  inevitable.  She  wanted,  very  certainly,  to  get  her  claws 
into  him ;  but,  for  safety's  sake,  that  should  be  done  not  in  attack, 
but  in  defence.  Therefore  he  should  speak  first,  and  in  his 
words,  whatever  those  words  might  be,  she  promised  herself 
to  discover  legitimate  cause  of  offence.  So,  leisurely,  and  with 
studied  ignorance  of  his  presence,  she  flung  largesse  of  centissimi 
to  right  and  left,  and,  while  the  chorus  of  blessing  and  entreaty 
was  yet  loud,  walked  calmly  past  M.  Destournelle  down  the 
wide,  shallow  steps,  from  the  solid  shadow  of  the  portico  to  the 
burning  sun-glare  of  the  piazza. 

The  young  man's  countenance  went  livid. 

"Do  you  dare  to  pretend  not  to  recognise  me?"  he  literally 
gasped. 

"  On  the  contrary  I  recognise  you  perfectly." 

"  I  have  written  to  you  repeatedly." 

"You  have — written  to  me  with  a  ridiculous  and  odious 
persistence." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  picked  her  steps.  The  pavement  was 
uneven,  the  heat  great.  Destournelle's  hands  twitched  with 
agitation,  yet  he  contrived  not  only  to  replace  his  Panama 
hat,  but  opened  his  white  umbrella  as  a  precaution  against 
sunstroke.  And  this  diverted,  even  while  exasperating,  Helen. 
Measures  to  ensure  personal  safety  were  so  characteristic  of 
Destournelle  ! 

*'  And  with  what  fault,  I  ask  you,  can  you  reproach  me,  save 
that  of  a  too  absorbing,  a  too  generous,  adoration  ?  " 

"That  fault  in  itself  is  very  sufficient." 

"  Do  you  not  reckon,  then,  in  any  degree^  with  the  crime 
you  are  in   process   of  committing?      Have  you  no  sense  of 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  427 

gratitude,  of  obligation  ?  Have  you  no  regret  for  your  own  loss 
in  leaving  me  ?  " 

Helen  drew  aside  to  let  a  herd  of  goats  pass.  They  jostled 
one  another  impudently,  carrying  their  inquisitive  heads  and 
short  tails  erect,  at  right  angles  to  the  horizontal  line  of  their 
narrow  backs.  They  bleated,  as  in  impish  mischief.  Their 
little  beards  wagged.  Their  little  hoofs  pattered  on  the  stone, 
and  the  musky  odour  of  them  hung  in  the  burning  air.  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  put  her  handkerchief  up  to  her  face,  and  over  the 
edge  of  it  she  contemplated  Paul  Destournelle.  Every  detail 
of  his  appearance  was  not  only  familiar,  but  associated  in  her 
mind  with  some  incident  of  his  and  her  common  past.  Now 
the  said  details  asserted  themselves,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  with  an 
impertinence  of  premeditated  provocation. — The  high,  domed 
skull,  the  smooth,  prematurely-thin  hair  parted  in  the  middle 
and  waved  over  the  ears.  The  slightly  raised  eyebrows,  and 
fatigued,  red-lidded,  and  vain,  though  handsome  eyes.  The 
straight,  thin  nose,  and  winged,  open  nostrils,  so  perpetually 
a-quiver.  The  soft,  sparse,  forked  beard  which  closely  followed 
the  line  of  the  lower  jaw  and  pointed  chin.  The  moustache, 
lightly  shading  the  upper  lip,  while  wholly  exposing  the  fretful 
and  rather  sensuous  mouth.  The  long,  effeminate,  and  restless 
hands.  The  tall,  slight  figure.  The  clothes,  of  a  material  and 
pattern  fondly  supposed  by  their  wearer  to  present  the  last  word 
of  English  fashion  in  relation  to  foreign  travel,  the  colour  of 
them  accurately  matched  to  the  pale,  brown  hair  and  beard. — So 
much  for  the  detail  of  the  young  man's  appearance.  As  a  whole, 
that  appearance  was  elegant  as  only  French  youth  ventures  to  be 
elegant.  Refinement  enveloped  Paul  Destournelle — refinement, 
over-sensitised  and  under-vitalised,  as  that  of  a  rare  exotic  forced 
into  precocious  blossoming  by  application  of  some  artificial 
horticultural  process.  And  all  this — elaborately  effective  and 
seductive  as  long  as  one  should  happen  to  think  so,  elaborately 
nauseous  when  one  had  ceased  so  to  think — had  long  been 
familiar  to  Helen  to  the  point  of  satiety.  She  turned  wicked, 
satiety  transmuting  itself  into  active  vindictivcness.  How 
gladly  would  she  have  torn  this  emasculated  creature  limb 
from  limb,  and  flung  the  lot  of  it  among  the  refuse  of  the 
Neapolitan  gutter  ! 

Put,  from  beneath  the  shade  of  his  umbrella,  the  young  man 
recommenced  his  plaint. 

"It  is  inconceivable  that,  knowing  my  cruel  capacity  for 
suffering,  yon  should  be  indifferent  to  my  present  situation,"  he 
asserted,   half  violently,   half  fretfully.      "The  whole   range  of 


428  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

history  would  fail  to  offer  a  case  of  parallel  callousness.  You, 
whose  personality  has  penetrated  the  recesses  of  my  being  !  You, 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  infinite  intricacy  of  my  mental  and 
emotional  organisation  !  A  touch  will  endanger  the  harmony  of 
that  exquisite  mechanism.  The  interpenetration  of  the  com- 
ponent parts  of  my  being  is  too  entire.  I  exist,  I  receive 
sensations,  I  suffer,  I  rejoice,  as  a  whole.  And  this  lays  me 
open  to  universal,  to  incalculable,  pain.  Now  my  nerves  are 
shattered  —  intellectual,  moral,  physical  anguish  permeates  in 
every  part.  I  rally  my  self-reverence,  my  nobility  of  soul. 
I  make  efforts.  By  day  I  visit  si)ots  of  natural  beauty  and 
objects  of  art.  But  these  refuse  to  gratify  me.  My  thought 
is  too  turgid  to  receive  the  impress  of  them.  Concentration  is 
impossible  to  me.  Feverish  agitation  perverts  my  imagination. 
My  ideas  are  fugitive.  I  endure  a  chronic  delirium.  This  by 
day,"  he  extended  one  hand  with  a  despairing  gesture,  "but 
by  night " — 

"Oh,  I  implore  you,"  Helen  interrupted,  "spare  me  the 
description  of  your  nights  !  The  subject  is  a  hardly  modest 
one.  And  then,  at  various  times,  I  have  already  heard  so  very 
much  about  them,  those  nights  ! " 

Calmly  she  resumed  her  walk.  The  amazing  vanity  of  the 
young  man's  speech  appeased  her  in  a  measure,  since  it  fed  her 
contempt.  Let  him  sink  himself  beyond  all  hope  of  recovery, 
that  was  best.  Let  him  go  down,  down,  in  exposition  of  fatuous 
self-conceit.  When  he  was  low  enough,  then  she  would  kick 
him  !  Meanwhile  her  eyes,  ever  greedy  of  incident  and  colour, 
registered  the  scene  immediately  submitted  to  them.  In  the 
centre  of  the  piazza,  women — saffron  and  poppy-coloured  hand- 
kerchiefs tied  round  their  dark  heads — washed,  with  a  fine 
impartiality,  soiled  linen  and  vegetables  in  an  iron  trough,  grated 
for  a  third  of  its  length,  before  a  fountain  of  debased  and 
flamboyant  design.  Their  voices  were  alternately  shrill  and 
guttural.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  not  to  understand  too  clearly 
all  which  they  said.  On  the  left  came  a  break  in  the  high, 
painted  house-fronts,  off  which  in  places  the  plaster  scaled,  and 
from  the  windows  of  which  protruded  miscellaneous  samples  of 
wearing  apparel  and  bedding  soliciting  much-needed  purification 
by  means  of  air  and  light.  In  the  said  break  was  a  low  wall 
where  coarse  plants  rooted,  and  atop  of  which  lay  some  half- 
dozen  ragged  youths,  outstretched  upon  their  stomachs,  playing 
cards.  The  least  decrepit  of  the  beggars,  armed  with  Helen's 
largesse  of  copper  coin,  had  joined  them  from  beneath  the 
portico.      Gambling,  seasoned  by  shouts,   imprecations,  blows. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  429 

grew  fast  and  furious.     In  the  steep  roadway  on  the  right  a  dray, 
loaded  with  barrels,  creaked  and  jolted  upward.     The  wheels 
of  it  were  solid  discs  of  wood.      The  great,  mild-eyed,  cream- 
coloured  oxen  strained,  with  slowly  swinging  heads,  under  the 
heavy  yoke.     Scarlet,  woollen  bands  and  tassels  adorned  their 
broad   foreheads    and  wide-sweeping,    black-tipped    horns,   and 
here  and  there  a  scarlet  drop  their  flanks,  where  the  goad  had 
pricked  them  too  shrewdly.     And  upon  it  all  the  unrelenting 
southern  sun  looked  down,  and  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  unrelenting 
eyes  looked  forth.     One  of  those  quick  realisations  of  the  in- 
exhaustible excitement  of  living  came  to  her.     She  looked  at 
the  elegant  young  man  walking  beside  her,  appraised,  measured 
him.     She  thought  of  Richard  Calmady,  self-imprisoned  in  the 
luxurious  villa,  and  of  the  possibilities  of  her,  so  far  platonic, 
relation  to  him.     She  glanced  down  at  her  own  rustling  skirts 
and  daintily-shod  feet  travelling  over  the  hot  stones ;  then  at  the 
noisy  gamblers,   then  at  the   women   washing,    with   that   con- 
summate disregard  of  sanitation,  food  and  raiment  together  in 
the  rusty  iron  trough  by  the  fountain.     The  violent  contrasts, 
the  violent  lights  and  shadows,  the  violent  diversities  of  purpose 
and  emotion,  of  rank,  of  health,  of  fortune  and  misfortune,  went 
to  her  head.     Whatever  the  risks  or  dangers,   that  excitement 
remained   inexhaustible.      Nay,   those   very   dangers  and  risks 
ministered  to  its   perpetual  upflowing.     It  struck  her  she  had 
been   over  -  scrupulous,   weakly   conscientious,    in   making   con- 
fession  and   seeking    absolution.       Such    timid    moralities   do 
not   really   shape   destiny,    control    or    determine   human   fate. 
The   shouting,    fighting   youths    there,    with    their    filthy   pack 
of  cards  and  few  caitissimi,  sprawling  in  the  unstinted  sunshine, 
were   nearer  the   essential    truth.       They   were   the   profound, 
because  the  practical  philosophers.      Therefore  let  us  gamble, 
gamble,  gamble,  be  the  stake  small  or  great,  as  long  as  the 
merest  flicker  of  life,   or  fraction  of  uttermost  farthing,  is  left ! 
And   so,    when    Destournelle    took   up   his   lament   again,    she 
listened  to  him,  for  the  moment,  with  remarkable  lightness  of 
heart. 

"  I  appeal  to  you  in  the  name  of  my  as  yet  unwritten  poems, 
my  masterpieces,  for  which  France,  for  which  the  wliole  brother- 
hf)od  of  letters,  so  anxiously  waits,  to  put  a  term  to  this  appalling 
chastisement ! " 

"  Delicious  ! "  said  Helen,  under  her  breath. 
•'Your    classicism     is     the     natural     complement    of    my 
mediaivalism.      The   elasticity,   the  concreteness,   of  your  teni- 
jc-ament    fertilised   the    too-brooding   introspectiveness   of   my 


430  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

own.  It  lightened  the  reverence  which  I  experience  in  the 
contemplation  of  my  own  nature.  It  induced  in  me  the  hint 
of  frivolity  which  is  necessary  to  procure  action.  Our  union 
was  as  that  of  high-noon  and  impenetrable  night.  I  anticipated 
extraordinary  consequences." 

"  Marriage  of  a  butterfly  and  a  bat  ?  Yes,  the  progeny  should 
be  surprising  little  animals  certainly,"  commented  Madame  de 
Vallorbes. 

"In  deserting  me  you  have  rendered  me  impotent.  That  is 
a  crime.     It  is  an  atrocity.     You  assassinate  my  genius." 

"  Then,  indeed,  I  have  reason  to  congratulate  myself  on  my 
ingenuity,"  she  returned,  "  since  I  succeed  in  the  assassination  of 
the  non-existent ! " 

"You,  who  have  praised  it  a  thousand  times — you  deny  the 
existence  of  my  genius?"  almost  shrieked  M.  Destournelle. 
He  was  very  much  in  earnest,  and  in  a  very  sorry  case.  His 
limbs  twitched.  He  appeared  on  the  verge  of  an  hysteric 
seizure.  To  plague  him  thus  was  a  charmingly  pretty  sport, 
but  one  safest  carried  on  with  closed  doors — not  in  so  public 
a  spot. 

"  I  do  not  deny  the  existence  of  anything,  save  your  right  to 
make  a  scene  and  render  me  ridiculous  as  you  repeatedly  did  at 
Pisa." 

"  Then  you  must  return  to  me." 

"Oh!  la,  la! "cried  Helen. 

"  That  you  should  leave  me  and  live  in  your  cousin's  house 
constitutes  an  intolerable  insult." 

"And  where,  pray,  would  you  have  me  live?"  she  retorted, 
her  temper  rising,  to  the  detriment  of  diplomacy.  "  In  the 
street  ?  " 

"  It  appears  to  me  the  two  localities  are  synonymous — 
morally." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  drew  up.  Rage  almost  choked  her. 
M.  Destournelle's  words  stung  the  more  fiercely  because  the  in- 
sinuation they  contained  was  not  justified  by  fact.  They  brought 
home  to  her  her  non-success  in  a  certain  direction.  They  called 
up  visions  of  that  unknown  rival,  to  whom — ah,  how  she  hated 
the  woman  ! — Richard  Calmady's  affections  were,  as  she  feared, 
still  wholly  given.  That  her  own  relation  to  him  was  innocent, 
filled  her  with  humiliation.  First  she  turned  to  Zdlie  Forestier, 
who  had  followed  at  a  discreet  distance  across  the  piazza. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  "down  the  street.  Find  a  cab,  a  clean 
one.     Wait  in  it  for  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill." 

Then  she  turned  upon  M.  Destournelle. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  431 

"  Your  mind  is  so  corrupt  that  you  cannot  conceive  of  an 
honest  friendship,  even  between  near  relations.  You  fill  me 
with  repulsion — I  measured  the  depth  of  your  degeneracy  at 
Pisa.  That  is  why  I  left  you.  I  wanted  to  breathe  an  un- 
infected atmosphere.  My  cousin  is  a  person  of  remarkable 
intellectual  powers,  of  chivalrous  ideals,  and  of  superior  character. 
He  has  had  great  troubles.  He  is  far  from  well.  I  am  watching 
over  and  nursing  him." 

The  last  statement  trenched  boldly  on  fiction.  As  she  made 
it  Madame  de  Vallorbes  moved  forward,  intending  to  follow  the 
retreating  Zelie  down  the  steep,  narrow  street.  For  a  minute 
M.  Destournelle  paused  to  recollect  his  ideas.  Then  he  went 
quickly  after  her. 

"Stay,  I  implore  you,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  own  at  Pisa  I  lost 
myself.  The  agitation  of  composition  was  too  much  for  me. 
My  mind  seethed  with  ideas.  I  became  irritable.  I  com- 
prehend I  was  in  fault.  But  it  is  so  easy  to  recommence,  and 
to  range  oneself.  I  accept  your  assurances  regarding  your  cousin. 
It  is  all  so  simple.  You  shall  not  return  to  me.  You  shall 
continue  your  admirable  work.  But  I  will  return  to  you.  I 
will  join  you  at  the  villa.  My  society  cannot  fail  to  be  of 
pleasure  to  your  cousin,  if  he  is  such  a  person  as  you  describe. 
In  a  milieu  removed  from  care  and  trivialities  I  will  con- 
tinue my  poem.  I  may  even  dedicate  it  to  your  cousin.  I 
may  make  his  name  immortal.  If  he  is  a  person  of  taste  and 
ideals,  he  cannot  fail  to  appreciate  so  magnificent  a  compliment. 
You  will  place  this  before  him.  You  will  explain  to  him  how 
necessary  to  me  is  your  presence.  He  will  be  glad  to  co-operate 
in  procuring  it  for  me.  He  will  understand  that  in  making  these 
propositions  I  offer  him  a  unique  opportunity,  I  behave  towards 
him  with  signal  generosity.  And  if,  at  first,  the  intrusion  of  a 
stranger  into  his  household  should  api)ear  inconvenient,  let  him 
but  pause  a  little.  He  will  find  his  reward  in  the  development 
of  my  genius  and  in  the  spectacle  of  our  mutual  felicity." 

Destournelle  s{)oke  with  great  rapidity.  The  street  which 
they  had  now  entered,  from  the  far  end  of  the  piazza,  was  narrow. 
It  was  encumbered  by  a  string  of  laden  mules,  by  a  stream  of 
foot  passengers.  Interruption  of  his  monologue,  short  of  raising 
her  voice  to  screaming  pilch,  was  impossible  to  Madame  dc 
Vallorbes.  But  when  he  ceased  she  addressed  him,  and  lu  r  lips 
were  drawn  away  from  her  pretty  teeth  viciously. 

"Oh!  you  unspeakable  idiot!"  she  said.  "Have  you  no 
remnant  of  shame?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  .Sir  Richard  Calmady  would 


432  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

have  the  insolence,  is  so  much  ihe  victim  of  insular  prejudice 
as,  to  object  to  our  intimacy  ?  " 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clapped  her  hands  together  in  a  sort 
of  frenzy. 

"  Idiot,  idiot,"  she  repeated.     "  1  wish  I  could  kill  you." 

Suddenly  M.  Paul  Destournelle  had  all  his  wits  about  him. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  curiously  resembling  in 
its  malice  the  bleating  of  the  little  goats,  "I  perceive  that  which 
constitutes  the  obstacle  to  our  reunion.     It  shall  be  removed." 

He  lifted  his  Panama  hat  with  studied  elegance,  and  turning 
down  a  break-neck,  side  alley,  called,  over  his  shoulder : — 

"  A  bietitot  tres  chere  tnadame.'' 


CHAPTER   VII 

SPLENDIDK    MKNDAX 

UNPUNCTUALITY  could  not  be  cited  as  among  Madame 
de  Vallorbes'  offences.  Yet,  on  the  morning  in  question, 
she  was  certainly  very  late  for  the  twelve  o'clock  breakfast. 
Richard  Calmady — awaiting  her  coming  beneath  the  glistering 
dome  of  the  airy  pavilion,  set  in  the  angle  of  the  terminal  wall 
of  the  high-lying  garden— had  time  to  become  conscious  of  slight 
irritation.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was  constitutionally  im- 
patient of  delay,  but  that  his  nerves  were  tiresomely  on 
edge  just  now.  Trifles  had  power  to  endanger  his  some- 
what stoic  equanimity.  But,  when  at  length  Helen  emerged 
from  the  house,  irritation  was  forgotten.  Moving  through  the 
vivid  lights  and  shadows  of  the  ilex  and  cypress  grove,  her 
appearance  had  a  charm  of  unwonted  simplicity.  At  first  sight 
her  graceful  person  had  the  effect  of  being  clothed  in  a  religious 
habit.  Richard's  youthful  delight  in  seeing  a  woman  walk 
beautifully  remained  to  him.  It  received  satisfaction  now. 
Helen  advanced  without  haste,  a  certain  grandeur  in  her  de- 
meanour, a  certain  gloom,  even  as  one  who  takes  serious  counsel 
of  himself,  indifferent  to  external  things,  at  once  actor  in,  and 
spectator  of,  some  drama  playing  itself  out  in  the  theatre  of  his 
own  soul.  And  this  effect  of  dignity,  of  self-recollection,  was 
curiously  heightened  by  her  dress  —  of  a  very  soft  and  fine 
woollen  material,  of  spotless  white,  the  lines  of  it  at  once  flowing 
and  statuesque.  While  as  head-gear,  in  place  of  some  startling 
construction  of  contemporary,  Parisian  millinery,  she  wore,  after 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  433 

the  modest  Italian  fashion,  a  black  lace  mantilla  over  her  bright 
hair. 

Arrived,  she  greeted  Richard  curtly  ;  and,  without  apology  for 
delay,  accepted  the  contents  of  the  first  dish  oftered  to  her  by  the 
waiting  men-servants,  ate  as  though  determinedly  and  putting 
a  force  upon  herself,  and — that  which  was  unusual  with  her 
before  sundown — drank  wine.  And,  watching  her,  involuntarily 
Richard's  thought  travelled  back  to  a  certain  luncheon  party  at 
Brockhurst,  graced  by  the  presence  of  genial,  puzzle-headed 
Lord  Fallowfeild  and  members  of  his  numerous  family,  when 
Helen  had  swept  in,  even  as  now,  had  been  self-absorbed,  even 
as  now.  Of  the  drive  to  Newlands,  all  in  the  sad  November 
afternoon,  following  on  that  luncheon,  he  also  thought,  of 
communications  made  by  Helen  during  that  drive,  and  of 
the  long  course  of  event  and  action  directly  or  indirectly 
consequent  on  those  communications.  He  thought  of  the  fog, 
too,  enveloping  and  almost  choking  him,  when  in  the  early 
morning  driven  by  furies,  still  virgin  in  body  as  in  heart,  he  had 
ridden  out  into  a  blank  and  sightless  world  hoping  the  chill  of  it 
would  allay  the  fever  in  his  blood ;  and  of  the  fog  again,  in  the 
afternoon,  from  out  which  the  branches  of  the  great  trees,  like 
famine-stricken  arms  in  tattered  draperies,  seemed  to  pluck  evilly 
at  the  carriage,  as  he  walked  the  smoking  horses  up  and  down 
the  Newlands  drive,  waiting  for  Helen  to  rejoin  him.  And  now, 
somehow,  that  fog  seemed  to  come  up  between  him  and  the 
well -covered  breakfast  -  table,  between  him  and  the  radiant 
expanse  of  the  vivacious,  capricious,  half-classic,  half-modern, 
mercantile  city  outstretched  there,  teeming,  breeding,  fermenting, 
in  the  fecundating  heat  of  the  noonday  sun.  The  chill  of 
the  fog  struck  cold  into  his  vitals,  giving  him  the  strangest 
physical  sensation.  Richard  straightened  himself  in  his  chair, 
passed  his  hands  across  his  eyes  impatiently.  Brockhurst,  and 
all  the  old  life  of  it,  was  a  subject  of  which  he  forbade  himself 
remembrance.  He  had  divorced  himself  from  all  that,  cut 
himself  adrift  from  it  long  ago.  By  an  act  of  will,  he  tried  to  put 
it  out  of  his  mind  now.  But  the  fog  remained — an  actual 
clouding  of  his  physical  vision,  blurring  all  he  looked  upon.  It 
was  hocribly  uncomfortable.  He  wished  he  was  alone.  Then 
he  might  have  slipped  down  from  his  chair  and,  according  to  his 
poor  capacity  of  locomotion,  sought  relief  in  movement. 

Meanwhile,  silently,  mechanically,  Helen  de  Vallorbcs  con- 
tinued her  breakfast.  And  as  she  so  continued,  in  additi(jn 
to  his  singular  physical  sensations  of  blurred  vision  and  clinging 
chill,  he  became  aware  of  a  growing  embarrassment  and  constraint 
28 


434  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

between  himself  and  his  companion.  So  far,  his  and  her 
intercourse  had  been  easy  and  spontaneous,  because  superficial. 
Since  that  first  interview  on  the  terrace  a  tacit  agreement  had 
existed  to  avoid  the  personal  note.  Now,  for  cause  unknown, 
that  intercourse  threatened  entering  upon  a  new  phase.  It  was 
as  though  the  concentration,  the  tension,  which  he  observed  in 
her,  and  of  which  he  was  sensible  in  himself,  must  of  necessity, 
eventuate  in  some  unbosoming,  some  act — almost  involuntary — 
of  self-revelation.  This  unaccustomed  silence  and  restraint 
seemed  to  Richard  charged  with  consequences,  which,  in  his 
present  condition  of  defective  volition,  he  was  powerless  to 
prevent.  And  this  displeased  him,  mastery  of  surrounding 
influences  being  very  dear  to  him. 

At  last,  coffee  having  been  served,  the  men-servants  withdrew  to 
the  house  ;  but  the  constraint  was  not  thereby  lessened.  Helen 
sat  upright,  her  chin  resting  upon  the  back  of  her  left  hand,  her 
eyes,  under  their  drooping  lids,  looking  out  with  a  veiled  fierceness 
upon  the  fair  and  glittering  prospect.  Richard  saw  her  face  in 
profile.  The  black  mantilla  draped  her  shoulders  and  bust 
with  a  certain  austerity  of  effect.  It  was  evident  that — by 
something — she  had  been  stirred  to  the  extinction  of  her  habitual 
vivacity  and  desire  to  shine.  And  Richard,  for  all  his  coolness 
of  head  and  rather  cynical  maturity  of  outlook,  had  a  restless 
suspicion  of  going  forth — even  as  on  that  foggy  morning  at 
Brockhurst — into  a  blank  and  sightless  world,  full  of  hazardous 
possibility,  where  the  safe  way  was  difficult  of  discovery  and 
where  masked  dangers  might  lurk.  Solicitous  to  dissipate  his 
discomfort  he  spoke  a  little  at  random. 

"  You  must  forgive  me  for  being  such  an  abominably  bad 
host,"  he  said  courteously.  "  I  am  not  quite  the  thing  this 
morning,  somehow.  I  .had  a  little  go  of  fever  last  night.  My 
brain  is  like  so  much  pulp." 

Helen  dropped  her  hand  upon  the  table  as  though  putting  a 
term  to  an  importunate  train  of  thought. 

"  I  have  always  understood  the  villa  to  be  remarkably  free 
from  malaria,"  she  remarked  abstractedly. 

"  So  it  is.  I  quite  believe  that.  The  servants  certainly  keep 
well  enough.     But  so,  unfortunately,  is  not  the  port." 

Helen  turned  her  head.  A  vertical  line  was  observable 
between  her  arched  eyebrows. 

"  The  port  ?  "  she  repeated. 

Richard  swallowed  his  black  coffee.  Perhaps  it  might  steady 
him  and  clear  his  head.  The  numbness  of  his  faculties  and 
senses  alike  exasperated  him,  filling  him  with  a  persuasion  he 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  435 

would  say  precisely  those  things  wisdom  would  counsel  to  leave 
unsaid. 

"Yes — you  know  I  generally  go  down  and  sleep  on  board 
the  yacht." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  lips 
parted  in  a  soundless  exclamation.  Then  she  pushed  back  the 
modest  folds  of  the  mantilla,  leaving  her  neck  free.  The  action 
of  her  hands  was  very  graceful  as  she  did  this,  and  she  looked 
fixedly  at  Richard  Calmady. 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  she  said  slowly.  Then  added,  as 
though  reasoning  out  her  own  thought : — "  And  Naples  harbour 
is  admittedly  one  of  the  most  pestilential  holes  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Are  you  not  tempting  providence  in  the  matter  of  disease, 
Richard  ?     Are  you  not  rather  wantonly  indiscreet  ?  " 

*'  On  the  contrary,"  he  answered,  and  something  of  mockery 
touched  his  expression,  "  I  see  it  quite  otherwise.  I  have  been 
congratulating  myself  on  the  praiseworthy  abundance  of  my 
discretion." 

And  the  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than  Richard 
cursed  himself  for  a  bungler,  and  a  slightly  vulgar  one  at  that. 
But  upon  his  hearer  those  same  words  worked  a  remarkable 
change.  Her  gloom,  her  abstraction,  departed,  leaving  only  a 
pretty  pensiveness.  She  smiled  with  chastened  sweetness  upon 
Richard  Calmady — a  smile  nicely  attuned  to  the  semi-religious 
simplicity  of  her  dress. 

"  Ah  !  perhaps  we  are  both  a  trifle  out  of  sorts  this  morning  !  " 
she  said.  '  I,  too,  have  had  my  little  turn  of  sickness — 
sickness  of  heart.  And  that  seems  unfair,  since  I  rose  in  the 
best  disposition  of  spirit.     Quite  early  I  went  to  confession." 

"Confession?"  Richard  repeated.  "I  did  not  know  your 
reconciliation  with  the  Church  carried  you  to  such  practical 
lengths." 

"  Evidently  we  are  each  fated  to  make  small  discoveries 
regarding  the  habits  of  the  other,  to-day,"  she  rejoined.  "  Pos- 
sibly confession  is  to  me  just  what  those  nights  spent  on  board 
the  yacht,  lying  in  that  malodorous  harbour,  are  to  you  !  " 

Helen's  smile  broadened  to  a  dainty  naughtiness,  infinitely 
provoking.  But  pensiveness  speedily  supervened.  She  folded 
tier  hands  upon  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looked  down  at  them 
meditatively. 

"  I  reliever*!  my  conscience.  Not  that  there  was  much  to 
relieve  it  of,  thank  Heaven  !  We  have  lived  austerely  enough 
most  of  us,  this  winter  in  J'rance.  Only  it  becomes  a  matter  of 
moral,  personal  cleanliness,  after  a  time,  all  that — exaggerated, 


436  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

but  very  comfortable.  Just  as  one  takes  one's  bath  twice  daily, 
not  that  it  is  necessary  but  that  it  is  a  luxury  of  physical  purity 
and  self-respect,  so  one  comes  to  go  to  confession.  That  is  a 
luxury  of  moral  purification.  It  is  as  a  bath  to  the  soul, 
ministering  to  the  perfection  of  its  cleanliness  and  health." 

She  looked  up  at  Richard  smiling,  that  same  dainty 
naughtiness  very  present. 

"  You  observe  I  am  eminently  candid.  I  tell  you  exactly 
how  my  religion  affects  me.  I  can  only  reach  high-thinking 
through  acts  which  are  external  and  concrete.  In  short,  I  am  a 
born  sacramentalist." 

And  Richard  listened,  interested  and  entertained.  Yet,  since 
that  strange  blurring  of  fog  still  confused  his  vision  and  his 
judgment,  vaguely  suspicious  that  he  missed  the  main  intent  of 
her  speech.  Suspicious  as  one  who,  listening  to  the  clever 
patter  of  a  conjurer,  detects  in  it  the  effort  to  distract  attention 
from  some  difficult  feat  of  legerdemain,  until  that  feat  has  past 
from  attempt  merely  into  accomplished  fact. 

"  And,  indirectly,  that  is  where  my  heart-sickness  comes  in," 
she  continued,  with  a  return  to  something  of  her  former 
abstraction  and  gloom.  "  I  was  coming  away,  coming  back 
here — and  I  was  very  happy.  It  is  not  often  one  can  say  that. 
And  then — pouf — like  that,"  she  brought  her  hands  smartly 
together,  "  the  charming  bubble  burst !  For,  upon  the  very 
church  steps,  I  met  a  man  whom  I  have  every  cause  to  hate." 

As  she  spoke,  the  fog  seemed  to  draw  away,  burnt  up  by  the 
great,  flaming  sun-god  there.  Richard's  brain  grew  clear — 
clearer,  indeed,  than  in  perfect  health — and  his  still  face  grew 
more  still  than  was,  even  to  it,  quite  natural. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  harshly. 

And  Helen,  whose  faith  in  her  own  diplomacy  had 
momentarily  suffered  eclipse,  rejoiced.  For  the  tone  of  his  voice 
betrayed,  not  disgust,  but  anxiety.  It  stirred  her  as  a  foretaste 
of  victory.  And  victory  had  become  a  maddening  necessity 
to  her.  Destournelle  had  forced  her  hand.  His  natural 
infirmity  of  purpose  relieved  her  of  the  fear  he  could  work  her 
any  great  mischief.  Yet  his  ingenuity,  inspired  by  wounded 
vanity,  might  prove  beyond  her  calculations.  It  is  not  always 
safe  to  forecast  the  future  by  experience  of  the  past  in  relation  to 
such  a  being  as  Destournelle  !  Therefore  it  became  of  supreme 
importance,  before  that  gentleman  had  time  further  to  obtrude 
himself,  to  bind  Richard  Calmady  by  some  speech,  some  act, 
from  which  there  was  no  going  back.  And  more  than  just 
that.     The  sight  of  her  ex-lover,  though  she  now  loathed  him — 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  437 

possibly  just  because  she  so  loathed  him — provoked  passion  in 
her.  It  was  as  though  only  in  a  new  intrigue  could  she  rid 
herself  of  the  remembrance  of  the  old  intrigue  which  was  now  so 
detestable  to  her.  She  craved  to  do  him  that  deepest,  most 
ultimate,  despite.  And  passion  cried  out  in  her.  The  sight  of 
him,  though  she  loathed  him,  had  made  her  utterly  weary  of 
chastity.  All  of  which  emotions — but  held  as  hounds  in  a  leash, 
ready  to  be  slipped  when  the  psychological  moment  arrived,  and 
by  no  means  to  be  slipped  until  the  arrival  of  it — dictated  the 
tenor  of  her  next  speech. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  with  an  air  of  half-angry  sincerity 
altogether  convincing,  "  I  really  don't  know  that  I  am 
particularly  proud  of  the  episode.  I  know  I  was  careless,  that  I 
laid  myself  open  to  the  invidious  comment,  which  is  usually  the 
reward  of  all  disinterested  action.  One  learns  to  accept  it  as  a 
matter  of  course.     And  you  see  Paul  Destournelle  " — 

"  Oh,  Destournelle  ! "  Richard  exclaimed. 

"  You  have  read  him  ?  " 

"  Everyone  has  read  him." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  That  his  technique  is  as  amazingly  clever  as  his  thought  is 
amazingly  rotten." 

"I  know — I  know,"  she  said  eagerly.  "And  that  is  just 
what  induced  me  to  do  all  I  could  for  him.  If  one  could  cut  the 
canker  away,  give  him  backbone  and  decency,  while  retain- 
ing that  wonderful  technique,  one  would  have  a  second  and  a 
greater  Theophile  Gautier." 

Richard  was  looking  full  at  her.  His  face  had  more  colour, 
more  animation,  than  usual. 

"  If — yes — if,"  he  returned.     "  But  that  same  //  bulks  mighty 
big  to  my  mind." 

"  I  know,"  she  repeated.  "Yet  it  seemed  to  me  worth  the 
attempt.  And  then,  you  understand, — who  better? — that  if 
one's  own  affairs  are  not  conspicuously  happy,  one  has  all  the 
more  longing  the  affairs  of  others  should  be  crowned  with 
success.  And  this  winter  specially,  among  the  sordid  miseries, 
disgraces,  deprivations,  of  the  siege,  one  was  liable  to  take  refuge 
in  an  ovcr-cxaltcd  altruism.  It  was  difficult  in  so  mad  a  world  not 
to  indulge  in  personal  eccentricity — to  the  neglect  of  due  worship 
of  the  great  goddess  Conventionality.  With  death  in  visible  form 
at  every  street  corner,  one's  sense  of  humour,  let  alone  one's 
higher  faculties,  rebelled  against  the  futility  of  such  worship.  So 
many  detestable  sights  and  sounds  were  perpetually  presented  to 
one — not  to  mention  broth  of  abominable  things  daily  for  dinner 


438  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— that  one  turned,  with  thanksgiving,  to  beautiful  form  in  art,  to 
perfectly  feliciious  words  and  phrases.  The  meaning  of  them 
mattered  but  little  just  then.  They  freed  one  from  the  tyranny  of 
more  or  less  disgusting  fact.  They  satisfied  eye  and  ear.  One 
asked  nothing  more  just  then — luckily,  you  will  say,  since  the 
animal  Destournelle  has  very  surely  nothing  more  to  give." 

In  speaking,  Helen  pushed  her  chair  back,  turning  it 
sideways  to  the  table.  Her  speech  was  alive  with  varied  and 
telling  inflections.  Her  smallest  gesture  had  in  it  something 
descriptive  and  eloquent. 

"  And  so  I  fell  to  encouraging  the  animal,"  she  continued, 
almost  plaintively,  yet  with  a  note  of  veiled  laughter  in  her  voice. 
"  Reversing  the  order  of  Circe — Naples  inclines  one  to  classic 
illustration,  sometimes  a  little  hackneyed — by  the  way,  speaking 
of  Naples,  look  at  the  glory  of  it  all  just  now,  Richard ! — I  tried 
to  turn,  not  men  to  swine,  but  swine  to  men.  And  I  failed, 
of  course.  The  gods  know  best.  They  never  attempt  meta- 
morphosis on  the  ascending  scale  !  I  let  Destournelle  come  to 
see  me  frequently.  The  world  advised  itself  to  talk.  But,  being 
rather  bitterly  secure  of  myself,  I  disregarded  that.  If  one  is 
aware  that  one's  heart  was  finally  and  long  ago  disposed  of,  one 
ceases  to  think  seriously  of  that  side  of  things.  You  must  know 
all  that  well  enough — witness  the  sea-born  furnishings  of  my  bed- 
room upstairs  ! " 

For  half  a  minute  she  paused.     Richard  made  no  comment. 

"  Hard  words  break  no  bones,"  she  added  lightly.  "  And  so, 
to  show  how  much  I  despised  all  such  censorious  cackle,  I  allowed 
Destournelle  to  travel  south  with  me  when  I  left  Paris." 

"You  pushed  neglect  of  the  worship  of  conventionality  rather 
far,"  Richard  said. 

Helen  rose  to  her  feet.  Excitement  gained  on  her,  as 
always  during  one  of  her  delightful  improvisations,  her  talented 
viva  voce  improvements  on  dry-as-dust  fact.  She  laughed  softly, 
biting  her  lip.  More  than  one  hound  had  been  slipped  by  now. 
They  made  good  running.  She  stood  by  Richard  Calmady,  look- 
ing down  at  him,  covering  him,  so  to  speak,  with  her  eyes.  The 
black  mantilla  no  longer  veiled  her  bright  head.  It  had  fallen 
to  the  ground,  and  lay  a  dark  blot  upon  the  mellow  fairness  of  the 
tesselated  pavement.  White-robed,  statuesque — yet  not  with  the 
severe  grace  of  marble,  but  with  that  softer,  more  humanly 
seductive  grace  of  some  figure  of  cunningly  tinted  ivory — she 
appeared,  just  then,  to  gather  up  in  herself  all  the  poetry,  the 
intense  and  vivid  light,  the  victorious  vitality,  of  the  clear, 
burning,  southern  noon. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  439 

"  Ah,  well,  conventionality  proved  perfectly  competent  to 
avenge  herself!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  animal  Destournelle 
took  the  average,  the  banal  view,  as  might  have  been  anticipated. 
He  had  the  insane  presumption  to  suppose  it  was  himself,  not 
his  art,  in  which  I  was  interested.  I  explained  his  error,  and 
departed.  I  recovered  my  equanimity.  That  took  time.  I 
felt  soiled,  degraded.  And  then  to-day  I  meet  him  again,  un- 
ashamed, actually  claiming  recognition.  1  repeated  my  explana- 
tion with  uncompromising  lucidity  " — 

Richard  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  looking  up  almost 
sharply  at  her. 

"  ^Vaste  of  breath,"  he  said.  "  No  explanation  is  lucid  if  the 
hearer  is  unwilling  to  accept  it." 

And  then  the  two  cousins,  as  though  they  had  reached 
unexpectedly  some  parting  of  the  ways,  calling  for  instant  decision 
in  respect  of  the  future  direction  of  their  journey,  gazed  upon 
one  another  strangely — each  half  defiant  of  the  other,  each 
diligent  to  hide  his  own  and  read  the  other's  thought,  each 
sensible  of  a  crisis,  each  at  once  hurried  and  arrested  by  sus- 
picion of  impending  catastrophe,  unless  this  way  be  chosen  that 
declined — though  it  seemed,  in  good  truth,  not  in  their  keeping, 
but  in  that  of  blind  chance  only  that  both  selection  and  rejection 
actually  resided.  And,  in  this  strait,  neither  habit  of  society, 
fine  sword-play  of  diplomacy  and  tact,  availed  to  help  them.  For 
suddenly  they  had  outpaced  all  that,  and  brought  up  amongst 
ancient  and  secular  springs  of  action  and  emotion  before  which 
civilisation  is  powerless  and  the  ready  tongue  of  fashion  dumb. 

But  even  while  he  so  gazed,  in  fateful  suspense  and  indecision, 
the  fog  came  up  again,  chilling  Richard  Calmady's  blood, 
oppressing  his  brain  as  with  an  uprising  of  foul  miasma,  blurring 
his  vision,  so  that  Helen's  fair,  downward-gazing  face  was  distorted, 
rendered  illusive  and  vague.  And,  along  with  this,  distressing 
restlessness  took  him,  compelling  him  to  seek  relief  in  change  of 
posture  and  of  place.  He  could  not  stop  to  reckon  with  how 
that  which  he  proposed  to  do  might  strike  an  onlooker.  His 
immediate  sensations  filled  his  whole  horizon.  Silently  he 
slipped  down  from  his  chair,  stood  a  moment,  supporting  himself 
with  one  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  then  moved  forward 
to  that  side  of  the  pavilion  which  gave  upon  tlie  garden. 
Here  the  sunshine  was  hot  upon  the  pavement,  and  upon  the 
outer  half  of  each  i)ale,  slender  column.  Richard  leant  his 
shoulder  against  one  of  these,  grateful  f(jr  the  genial  heat. 

Since  her  first  and  somewhat  inausjjicious  meeting  with  him 
in  childhood,  Helen  had    never,  close   at   hand,  seen  Richard 


440  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Calmady  walk  thus  far.  She  stared,  fascinated  by  that  cruel 
spectacle.  For  the  instant  transformation  of  the  apparently  tall, 
and  conspicuously  well-favoured,  courtly  gentleman,  just  now 
sitting  at  table  with  her,  into  this  shuffling,  long -armed, 
crippled  dwarf  was,  at  first  utterly  incredible,  then  portentous, 
then,  by  virtue  of  its  very  monstrosity,  absorbing  and,  to  her, 
adorable,  whetting  appetite  as  veritable  famine  might.  Chastity 
became  to  her  more  than  ever  absurd,  a  culpable  waste  of  her 
own  loveliness,  of  sensation,  of  emotion,  a  sin  against  those 
vernal  influences  working  in  this  generous  nature  surrounding 
her  and  working  in  her  own  blood.  All  the  primitive  instinct 
of  her  womanhood  called  aloud  in  her  that  she  must  wed — 
must  wed.  And  the  strident  voice  of  the  great,  painted  city 
coming  up  to  her,  urgent,  incessant,  carried  the  same  message ; 
as  did  the  radiant  sea,  whose  white  lips  kissed  the  indented 
coast-line  as  though  pale  and  hungry  with  love.  While  the  man 
before  her,  by  his  very  abnormality  and  a  certain  secretness 
inevitable  in  that,  heightened  her  passion.  He  was  to  her  of 
all  living  men  most  desirable,  so  that  she  must  win  him  and 
hold  him,  must  see  and  know. 

In  a  few  steps,  light  as  those  of  the  little,  rose-crowned 
dancer  of  long  ago,  she  followed  him  across  the  shining  floor. 
There  was  a  point  of  north  in  the  wind,  adding  exhilaration  to 
the  firm  sunshine  as  ice  to  rare  wine.  The  scent  of  narcissus, 
magnolia,  and  lemon  blossom  was  everywhere.  The  cypresses 
yielded  an  aromatic,  myrrh-like  sweetness.  The  uprising  waters 
of  the  fountain,  set  in  the  central  alley,  swerved  southward, 
falling  in  a  jewelled  rain.  Helen,  in  her  spotless  raiment,  came 
close  and  Richard  Calmady  turned  to  her.  But  his  eyes  no 
longer  questioned  hers.  They  were  as  windows  opening  on 
to  empty  space,  seeing  all,  yet  telling  nothing.  His  face  had 
become  still  again  and  inscrutable,  lightened  only  by  that 
flickering,  mocking  smile.  It  seemed  as  though  the  psycho- 
logical moment  were  passed  ;  and  social  sense,  ordinary  fashions  of 
civilised  intercourse,  had  not  only  come  back  but  come  to  stay. 

"  I  think  we  will  omit  Destournelle  from  our  talk  in 
future,"  he  said.  "As  a  subject  of  conversation  I  find  he 
disagrees  with  me,  notwithstanding  his  felicity  of  style  and  his 
admirable  technique.  I  will  give  orders  which,  I  hope,  may  help 
to  protect  you  from  annoyance  in  future.  In  this  delightful 
land,  by  wise  exercise  of  just  a  little  bribery  and  corruption,  it  is 
still  possible  to  make  the  unwelcome  alien  prefer  to  seek  health 
and  entertainment  elsewhere.  Now,  will  you  like  to  go  back  to 
the  house?" 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  441 

The  approach  to  the  pavilion  from  the  lower  level  of  the 
garden  was  by  a  carefully  graded  slope  of  Roman  brick,  set 
edgewise.  At  regular  intervals  of  about  eighteen  inches  this 
was  crossed — on  the  principle  of  a  gang-plank — by  raised  marble 
treads,  ^^'ilhout  waiting  for  his  cousin's  reply,  Richard  started 
slowly  down  the  slope.  At  the  best  of  times  this  descent  for 
him  demanded  caution.  Now  his  vision  was  again  so  queerly 
blurred  that  he  miscalculated  the  distance  between  the  two 
lowest  treads,  slipped  and  stumbled,  lunging  forward.  Quick  as 
a  cat,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  behind  him,  her  right  hand 
grasping  his  right  elbow,  her  left  hand  under  his  left  armpit. 

"  Ah  !  Dickie,  Dickie,  don't  fall !  "  she  cried,  a  sudden  terror 
in  her  voice. 

Her  muscles  hardened  like  steel.  It  needed  all  her  strength 
to  support  him,  for  he  was  heavy,  his  body  inert  as  that  of  one 
fainting.  For  a  moment  his  head  rested  against  her  bosom ; 
and  her  breath  came  short,  sighing  against  his  neck  and 
cheek. 

By  sheer  force  of  will  Richard  recovered  his  footing, 
disengaging  himself  from  her  support,  shuffling  aside  from 
her. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  Helen,"  he  said. 

Then  he  looked  full  at  her,  and  she — untender  though  she 
was  —  perceived  that  the  perspective  of  space  on  which,  as 
windows  might,  his  eyes  seemed  to  open,  was  not  empty.  It  was 
peopled,  crowded — even  as  those  steep  teeming  byways  of  Naples 
— by  undying,  unforgetable  misery,  by  humiliation,  by  revolt. 

"Yes,  it  is  rather  unpardonable  to  be— as  I  am — isn't  it?" 
he  said.  Adding  hastily,  yet  with  a  certain  courteous  dignity : — 
"  I  am  ashamed  to  trouble  you,  to  ask  you — of  all  people — to  run 
messages  for  me — but  would  you  go  on  to  the  house  " — 

"  Dickie,  why  may  not  I  help  you?"  she  interrupted. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  "  the  answer  to  that  lies  away  back  in  the 
beginning  of  things.  Even  unlucky  devils,  such  as  myself,  are 
not  without  a  certain  respect  for  that  which  is  fitting,  for  seemli- 
ncss  and  etiquette.  Send  one  of  my  men  please.  I  shall  be 
very  grateful  to  you — thanks." 

And  Hclin  de  Vallorbes,  her  passion  baulked  and  therefore 
more  than  ever  at  white  heat,  swept  up  the  paved  alley,  amid 
the  sweet  scents  of  the  garden,  beneath  the  jewelled  rain  of  the 
fountain,  that  point  of  north  in  the  wind  dallying  with  her  as  in 
laughing  challenge,  making  her  the  more  mad  to  have  her  way 
with  Richard  Calmady,  yet  knowing  that  of  the  two — he  and 
she — he  was  the  stronger  as  yet. 


442  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

CHAPTER  VIII 

IN    WHICH    HELEN    DE    VALLOllBES    LEARNS    HEll    KIVAl's    NAME 

"  T  HEAR  Morabita  sings,  in  Ernaiii,  at  the  San  Carlo  on 
J[      Friday  night.     Do  you  care  to  go,  Helen  ?  " 

The  question,  though  asked  casually,  had,  to  the  listener, 
the  effect  of  falling  with  a  splash,  as  of  a  stone  into  a  well, 
awakening  unexpected  echoes,  disturbing,  rather  harshly,  the 
constrained  silence  which  had  reigned  during  the  earlier  part 
of  dinner. 

All  the  long,  hot  afternoon,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  had  been 
alone — Richard  invisible,  shut  persistently  away  in  those  rooms 
of  the  entresol  into  which,  as  yet,  she  had  never  succeeded  in 
penetrating.  Richard  had  not  proposed  to  her  to  do  so.  And 
it  was  part  of  that  praiseworthy  discretion  which  she  had 
agreed  with  herself  to  practise — in  her  character  of  scrupulously 
unexacting  guest — only  to  accept  invitations,  never  to  issue  them. 
How  her  cousin  might  occupy  himself,  whom  even  he  might 
receive,  during  the  time  spent  in  those  rooms,  she  did  not  know. 
And  it  was  idle  to  inquire.  Neither  of  her  servants,  though 
skilful  enough,  as  a  rule,  in  the  acquisition  of  information,  could, 
in  this  case,  acquire  any.  And  so  it  came  about  that  during 
those  many  still  bright  hours,  following  on  her  rather  agitated 
parting  with  Richard  at  midday,  while  she  paced  the  noble 
rooms  of  the  first  floor — once  more  taking  note  of  their  costly 
furnishings  and  fine  pictures,  meeting  her  own  restless  image 
again  and  again  in  their  many  mirrors — and  later,  near  sundown, 
when  she  walked  the  dry,  brown  pathways  of  the  ilex  and  cypress 
grove,  the  wildest  suspicions  of  his  possible  doings  assailed  her. 
For  she  was  constrained  to  admit  that,  though  she  had  spent 
a  full  week  now  under  his  roof,  it  was  but  the  veriest  fringe, 
after  all,  of  the  young  man's  habits  and  thought  with  which  she 
was  actually  acquainted.  And  this  not  only  desperately 
intrigued  her  curiosity,  but  the  apartness,  behind  which  he 
entrenched  himself  and  his  doings,  was  as  a  slight  put  upon 
her  and  consequent  source  of  sharp  mortification.  So  to-day 
she  ranged  all  permitted  spaces  of  the  villa  and  its  grounds 
softly,  yet  lithe,  watchful,  fierce  as  a  she-panther — her  ears 
strained  to  hear,  her  eyes  to  see,  driven  the  while  by  jealousy 
of  that  nameless  rival,  to  remembrance  of  whom  all  the  whole 
place  was  dedicated,  and  by  baffled  passion,  as  with  whips. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  443 

Nor  did  superstition  fail  to  add  its  word  of  ill-omen  at  this 
juncture.  A  carrion  crow,  long-legged,  heavy  of  beak,  alighting 
on  the  clustered  curls  of  the  marble  bust  of  Homer,  startled  her 
with  vociferous  croakings.  A  long,  narrow,  many-jointed,  blue- 
black,  evil-looking  beetle  crawled  from  among  the  rusty,  fibrous, 
cypress  roots  across  her  path.  A  funeral  procession,  priest  and 
acolytes,  with  lighted  tapers,  sitting  within  the  glass-sided  hearse 
at  head  and  foot  of  the  flower-strewn  coffin,  wound  slowly  along 
the  dusty,  white  road — bordered  by  queer  growth  of  prickly-pear 
and  ragged,  stunted  palm-trees — far  below.  She  crossed  herself, 
turning  hurriedly  away.  Yet,  for  an  instant,  Death,  triumphant, 
hideous,  inevitable,  and  all  the  spiritual  terror  and  physical 
disgust  of  it,  grinned  at  her,  its  fleshless  face,  as  it  seemed,  close 
against  her  own.  And  alongside  Death — by  some  malign 
association  of  ideas  and  ugly  antic  of  profanity — she  saw  the 
bel  tete  de  Jhu  of  M.  Paul  Destournelle  as  she  had  seen  it  this 
morning,  he  looking  back,  hat  in  hand,  while  he  plunged  down 
the  break-neck,  Neapolitan  side-street,  with  that  impish,  bleating, 
goatlike  laugh. 

By  the  time  the  dinner-hour  drew  near  she  found  her  out- 
look in  radical  need  of  reconstruction,  and  to  that  end  bade 
Zelie  dress  her  in  the  crocus-yellow  brocade,  reserved  for  some 
emergency  such  as  the  present.  It  was  a  gown,  surely,  to 
restore  self-confidence  and  induce  self-respect !  Fashioned 
fancifully,  according  to  a  picturesque,  seventeenth  -  century, 
Venetian  model,  the  full  oleeves  and  the  long-waisted  bodice 
of  it — this  cut  low,  generously  displaying  her  shoulders  and  swell 
of  her  bosom — were  draped  with  superb  guipure  de  Flandres  d 
brides  frisks  and  strings  of  seed  pearls.  AH  trace  of  ascetic 
simplicity  had  very  certainly  departed.  Helen  was  resplendent 
— strings  of  seed  pearls  twisted  in  her  honey-coloured  hair,  a 
clear  red  in  her  cheeks  and  hard  brilliance  in  her  eyes,  bred 
of  eager,  jealous  excitement.  She  had,  indeed,  reached  a  stage 
of  feeling  in  which  the  sight  of  Ric;hard  Calmady,  the  fact  of 
his  presence,  worked  upon  her  to  the  extent  of  dangerous 
emotion.  And  now  this  statement  of  his,  and  the  question 
following  it,  caused  the  flame  of  the  inward  fires  tormenting  her 
to  Icaj)  high. 

"  Ah  !  Morabita  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  age  it  is  since 
I  have  heard  her  sing,  or  thought  about  her  !  How  is  her  voice 
lasting,  Richard?" 

"I  really  dc^i't  know,"  he  answered,  "and  that  is  why  I  am 
rather  curious  to  hear  her.  There  was  literally  nothing  but  a 
voice  in  her  case — no  dramatic  sense,  nothing  in  tlie  way  of 


444  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

intelligence  to  fall  back  on.  On  that  account  it  interested 
me  to  watch  her.  She  and  her  voice  had  no  essential  relation 
to  one  another.  Her  talent  was  stuck  into  her,  as  you  might 
stick  a  pin  into  a  cushion.  She  produced  glorious  effects 
without  a  notion  how  she  produced  them,  and  gave  expression 
— and  perfectly  just  expression — to  emotions  she  had  never 
dreamed  of.  At  the  best  of  times  singers  are  a  feeble  folk 
intellectually,  but,  of  all  singers  I  have  known,  she  was  mentally 
the  very  feeblest." 

"No,  perhaps  she  was  not  very  wise,"  Helen  put  in,  but 
quite  mildly,  quite  kindly. 

"  And  so  if  the  voice  went,  everything  went.  And  that  made 
one  reflect  agreeably  upon  the  remarkably  haphazard  methods 
employed  by  that  which  we  politely  call  Almighty  God  in  His 
construction  of  our  unhappy  selves.  Design  ? — There's  not  a 
trace  of  design  in  the  whole  show.  Bodies,  souls,  gifts, 
superfluities,  deficiencies,  just  pitched  together  anyhow.  The 
most  bungling  of  human  artists  would  blush  to  turn  out  such 
work." 

Richard  spoke  rapidly.  He  had  refused  course  after  course. 
And  now  the  food  on  his  plate  remained  untasted.  Seen  in 
the  soft  light  of  the  shaded  candles  his  face  had  a  strange  look 
of  distraction  upon  it,  as  though  he  too  was  restless  with  an 
intimate,  deep-seated  restlessness.  His  skin  was  less  colourless 
than  usual,  his  manner  less  colourless  also.  And  this  conferred 
a  certain  youthfulness  on  him,  making  him  seem  nearer — so 
Helen  thought — to  the  boy  she  had  known  at  Brockhurst,  than 
to  the  man,  whom  lately  she  had  been  so  signally  conscious  that 
she  failed  to  know. 

"  No,  I  hope  Morabita's  voice  remains  to  her,"  he  continued. 
"  Her  absolute  nullity  minus  it  is  disagreeable  to  think  of.  And 
much  as  I  relish  collecting  telling  examples  of  the  fatuity  of  the 
Creator — she,  voiceless,  would  offer  a  supreme  one — I  would 
spare  her  that,  poor  dear.  For  she  was  really  rather  charming 
to  me  at  one  time." 

"  So  it  was  commonly  reported,"  Helen  remarked. 

"  Was  it  ?  "  Richard  said  absently. 

Though  as  a  rule  conspicuously  abstemious,  he  had  drunk 
rather  freely  to-night,  and  that  with  an  odd  haste  of  thirst. 
Now  he  touched  his  champagne  tumbler,  intimating  to  Bates, 
the  house-steward — sometime  the  Brockhurst  under  butler — that 
it  should  be  refilled. 

"  I  can't  have  seen  Morabita  for  nearly  three  years,"  he 
went  on.     "And  my  last  recollections  of  her  are  unfortunate. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  445 

She  had  sent  me  a  box,  in  Vienna  it  was  I  think,  for  the 
Traviata.  She  was  fat  then,  or  rather,  fatter.  Stage  furniture 
leaves  something  to  desire  in  the  way  of  sohdity.  In  the  death 
scene  the  middle  of  the  bed  collapsed.  Her  swan-song  ceased 
abruptly.  Her  head  and  heels  were  in  the  air,  and  the  very 
large  rest  of  her  upon  the  floor,  bed  and  bedclothes  standing 
out  in  a  frill  all  round.  It  was  a  sight  discouraging  to 
sentiment.  I  judged  it  kinder  not  to  go  to  supper  with  her 
after  the  performance  that  night." 

Richard  paused,  again  drained  his  glass. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "what  atrocious  nonsense  I  am 
talking  ! " 

"  I  think  I  rather  enjoy  it,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  answered. 
She  looked  sideways  at  the  young  man,  from  under  her 
delicate  eyelids.  He  was  perfectly  sober — of  that  there  was  no 
question.  Yet  he  was  less  inaccessible,  somehow,  than  usual. 
She  inclined  to  experiment. — "  Only  I  am  sorry  for  Morabita  in 
more  ways  than  one,  poor  wretch.  But  then  perhaps  I  am  just 
a  little  sorry  for  all  those  women  whom  you  reject,  Richard." 

"The  women  whom  I  reject?"  he  said  harshly. 

"  Yes,  whom  you  reject,"  Helen  repeated. — Then  she  busied 
herself  with  a  small  black  fig,  splitting  it  deftly  open,  disclosing 
the  purple,  and  rose,  and  clear  living  greens  of  the  flesh  and 
innumerable  seeds  of  it,  colours  rich  as  those  of  a  tropic  sky  at 
sunset. — "  And  there  are  so  many  of  those  women  it  seems  to 
me !  I  am  coming  to  have  a  quite  pathetic  fellowship  for  them." 
She  buried  her  white  teeth  in  the  softness  of  the  fig. — "Not 
without  reason,  perhaps.  It  is  idle  to  deny  that  you  are  a  past- 
master  in  the  ungentle  art  of  rejection.  What  have  you  to  say 
in  self-defence,  Dickie  ?  " 

"That  talking  nonsense  appears  to  be  highly  infectious — and 
that  it  is  a  disagreeably  oppressive  evening." 

Helen  de  Vallorbes  smiled  upon  him,  glanced  quickly  over  her 
shoulder  to  assure  herself  the  servants  were  no  longer  present- 
then  spoke,  leaning  across  the  corner  of  the  table  towards  him, 
while  her  eyes  searched  his  with  a  certain  daring  provocation. 

"Yes,  I  admit  I  have  finished  my  fig.  Dinner  is  over.  And 
it  is  my  place  to  disajjpear  according  to  custom." — She  laid 
her  rosy  finger-tips  together,  her  elbows  resting  on  the  table. 
"  But  I  am  disinclined  to  disappear.  I  have  a  number  of  things 
to  say.  Take  that  cjuestion  of  going  to  the  oi)era,  for  instance. 
Half  Naples  will  be  there,  and  I  know  more  than  half  Naples, 
and  more  than  half  Naples  knows  me.  I  do  not  crave  to  run 
incontinently  into  the  arms  of  any  of  de  Vallorbes'  many  relations. 


446  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

They  were  not  conspicuously  kind  to  me  when  I  was  here  as  a 
girl  and  stood  very  much  in  need  of  kindness.  So  the  question 
of  going  to  the  San  Carlo,  you  see,  requires  reflection.  And 
then," — her  tone  softened  to  a  most  persuasive  gentleness, — "  then, 
the  evenings  are  a  trifle  long  when  one  is  alone  and  has  nothing 
very  satisfactory  to  think  about.  And  I  have  been  worried  to- 
day, detestably  worried." — She  looked  down  at  her  finger-tips. 
Her  expression  became  almost  sombre.  "In  any  case  I  shall 
not  plague  you  very  much  longer,  Richard,"  she  said  rather 
grandly.  "  I  have  determined  to  remove  myself  bag  and  baggage. 
It  is  best,  more  dignified  to  do  so.  Reluctantly  I  own  that. 
Here  have  I  no  abiding  city.  I  wish  I  had,  perhaps,  but  I 
haven't.  Therefore  it  is  useless,  and  worse  than  useless,  to 
play  at  having  one.     One  must  just  face  the  truth." 

She  looked  full  at  the  young  man,  smiling  at  him,  as  though 
somehow  forgiving  him  a  slight,  an  unkindness,  a  neglect. 

"And  so,  just  because  to  you  it  all  matters  so  uncommonly 
little,  let  us  talk  rather  later  this  evening." 

She  rose. 

"I'll  go  on  into  the  long  drawing-room,"  she  said.  "The 
windows  were  still  open  there  when  I  came  in  to  dinner.  The 
room  will  be  pleasantly  cool.     You  will  come  ?  " 

And  she  moved  away  quietly,  thoughtfully,  opened  the  high 
double-doors,  left  them  open,  and  that  without  once  looking  back- 
Yet  her  hearing  was  strained  to  catch  the  smallest  sound  above 
that  which  accompanied  her,  namely  the  rustling  of  her  dress. 
Then  a  queer  shiver  ran  all  down  her  spine  and  she  set  her  teeth, 
for  she  perceived  that  halting,  shuffling  footsteps  had  begun  to 
follow  those  light  and  graceful  footsteps  of  her  own. 

"  Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute"  she  said  to  herself. 
"I  have  no  fear  for  the  rest." 

Yet,  crossing  the  near  half  of  the  great  room,  she  sank  down 
on  a  sofa,  thankful  there  was  no  farther  to  go.  In  the  last  few 
minutes  she  had  put  forth  more  will-power,  felt  more  deeply,  than 
she  had  supposed.  Her  knees  gave  under  her.  It  was  a  relief 
to  sit  down. 

The  many  candles,  in  the  cut-glass  chandeliers  hanging  from 
along  the  centre  of  the  painted  ceiling,  were  lighted,  filling  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  room  with  a  bland,  diffused  radiance. 
It  touched  picture  and  statue,  tall  mirror,  rich  curtain,  polished 
woodwork  of  chair  and  table,  gleaming  ebony  and  ivory  cabinet. 
It  touched  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  bright  head  and  the  strings  of 
pearls  twisted  in  her  hair,  her  white  neck,  the  swell  of  her  bosom, 
and  all  that  delicate  wonder  of  needlework— the  Flanders  lace— 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  447 

trimming  her  bodice.  It  lay  on  her  lap,  too,  as  she  leaned  back 
in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  her  hands  pressed  down  on  either  side 
her  thighs — lay  there  bringing  the  pattern  of  her  brocaded  dress 
into  high  relief.  This  was  a  design  of  pomegranates — leaves, 
flowers,  and  fruit — and  of  trailing,  peacock  feathers,  a  couple  of 
shades  lighter  than  the  crocus-yellow  ground.  The  light  took 
the  over-threads  and  stayed  in  them. 

The  window  stood  wide  open  on  to  the  balcony,  the 
elaborately  wrought-ironwork  of  which — scroll  and  vase,  plunging 
dolphin  and  rampant  sea-horse — detached  itself  from  the  opaque 
background  of  the  night.  And  in  at  the  window  came  luscious 
scents  from  the  garden  below,  a  chime  of  falling  water,  the  music, 
faint  and  distant,  in  rising  and  falling  cadence  of  a  marching 
military  band.  In  at  it  also,  and  rising  superior  to  all  these  in 
imperativeness  and  purpose,  came  the  voice  of  Naples  itself — no 
longer  that  of  a  city  of  toil  and  commerce,  but  that  of  a  city  of 
pleasure,  a  city  of  licence,  until  such  time  as  the  dawn  should 
once  again  break,  and  the  sun  arise,  driving  back  man  and  beast 
alike  to  labour,  the  one  from  merry  sinning,  the  other  from  hard- 
earned  sleep.  And  once  again,  but  in  clearer,  more  urgent, 
accents,  the  voice  of  the  city  repeated  its  message  to  Helen  de 
Vallorbes,  calling  aloud  to  her  to  do  even  as  it  was  doing, 
namely  to  wed — to  wed.  And,  hearing  it,  understanding  that 
message,  for  a  little  space  shame  took  her,  in  face  both  of  its 
and  her  own  shamelessness  ;  so  that  she  closed  her  eyes,  unable 
for  the  moment  to  look  at  Richard  Calmady  as  he  crossed  the 
great  room  in  that  bland  and  yet  generous  light.  But,  almost 
immediately,  his  voice,  cold  and  measured  in  tone,  there  close 
beside  her,  claimed  her  attention. 

"  That  which  you  said  at  dinner  rather  distresses  me,  Helen." 

Then  shame,  or  no  shame,  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  of  necessity, 
opened  her  eyes.  And,  so  doing,  it  needed  all  her  self-control 
to  repress  a  cry.  She  forced  her  open  hands  down  very  hard  on 
the  mattress  of  the  sofa.  For  Richard  leaned  his  back  against 
the  jamb  of  the  open  window,  and  she  saw  his  face  and  all  his 
poor  figure  in  profile.  His  left  hand  hung  straight  at  his  side, 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  only  just  not  touching  the  floor.  And 
again,  as  at  midday,  the  spectacle  of  his  deformity  worked  upon 
her  strangely. 

"What  of  all  that  which  I  said  at  dinner  distresses  you  ? " 
she  asked  gently,  with  sudden  solicitude. 

"You  showed  me  that  I  have  been  a  wretchedly  negligent 
host." — In  speaking,  tlv  young  man  turned  his  head  and  looked 
at  her,  paused  a   iiiomenl,  almost   startled  by  lier  resplendent 


448  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

aspect.  Then  he  looked  down  at  his  own  stunted  and  defective 
limbs.  His  expression  became  very  grim.  He  raised  his 
shoulders  just  perceptibly.  "I  reproach  myself  with  having 
allowed  you  to  be  so  much  alone.  It  must  have  been  awfully 
dull  for  you." 

"  It  was  a  little  dull,"  Helen  said,  still  gently. 

"  I  ought  to  have  begged  you  to  ask  some  of  the  people  you 
know  in  Naples  to  come  here.  It  was  stupid  of  me  not  to  think 
of  it.  I  need  not  have  seen  them,  neither  need  they  have  seen 
me." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  again,  as  though  trying  to  fix  her 
image  in  his  memory. 

"Yes,  it  was  stupid  of  me,"  he  repeated  absently.  "But  I 
have  got  into  churlish,  bachelor  habits — that  can  hardly  be 
helped,  living  alone,  or  on  board  ship,  as  I  do — and  I  have 
pretty  well  forgotten  how  to  provide  adequately  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  a  guest." 

"  Oh  !  I  have  had  that  which  I  wanted,  that  which  I  came 
for,"  Helen  answered,  very  charmingly, — "had  it  in  part,  at  all 
events.  Though  I  could  have  put  up  with  just  a  little  more  of 
it,  Dickie,  perhaps." 

"  I  warned  you,  if  you  remember,  that  opportunities  of  amuse- 
ment— as  that  word  is  generally  understood — would  be  limited." 

"Amusement?"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  almost  tragic  inflec- 
tion of  contempt. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  he  said,  "amusement  is  not  to  be  despised.  I'd 
give  all  I  am  worth,  half  my  time,  to  be  amused — but  that  again, 
like  hospitality,  is  rather  a  lost  art  with  me.  You  remember,  I 
warned  you  life  at  the  villa  in  these  days  was  not  precisely 
hilarious." 

Helen  clapped  her  hands  together. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  wilfully  obtuse,  you  are  wilfully,  cruelly  pig- 
headed!" she  cried.  "Pardon  me,  dear  Richard,  but  your 
attitude  is  enough  to  exasperate  a  saint.  And  I  am  no  saint  as 
yet.  I  am  still  human — radically,  for  my  own  peace  of  mind 
lamentably,  human.  I  am  only  too  capable  of  being  grieved, 
humiliated,  hurt.  But  there,  it  is  folly  to  say  such  things  to  you  ! 
You  are  hopelessly  insensible  to  all  that.  So  I  take  refuge  in 
quoting  your  own  words  of  this  morning  against  you — that  no 
explanation  is  lucid  if  the  hearer  refuses  to  accept  it." 

"  I  am  dull,  no  doubt,  but  honestly  I  fail  to  see  how  that 
remark  of  mine  can  be  held  to  apply  in  the  present  case." 

"  It  applies  quite  desolatingly  well ! "  Helen  declared,  with 
spirit.     Then  her  manner  softened  into  a  seductiveness  of  for- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  449 

giveness  once  again. — "  And  so,  dear  Richard,  I  am  glad  that  I 
had  already  determined  to  leave  here  to-morrow.  It  would  have 
been  a  little  too  wretched  to  arrive  at  that  determination  after 
this  conversation.  You  must  go  alone  to  hear  your  old  flame, 
Morabita,  sing.  Only,  if  her  voice  is  still  as  sympathetic  as  of 
old,  if  it  moves  you  from  your  present  insensibility,  you  may 
read  remembrance  of  some  aspects  of  my  visit  into  the  witchery 
of  it  if  you  Hke.  It  may  occur  to  you  what  those  aspects  really 
meant." 

Helen  smiled  upon  him,  leaning  a  little  forward.  Her  eyes 
shone,  as  though  looking  out  through  unshed  tears. 

"  It's  not  exactly  flattering  to  one's  vanity  to  be  compelled  to 
depute  to  another  woman  the  making  of  such  things  clear.  But 
it  is  too  evident  I  waste  my  time  in  attempting  to  make  them 
clear  myself.     No  explanation  is  lucid,  et  ccetera  " — 

Helen  shook  back  her  head  with  an  extraordinary  charm  of 
half-defiant,  half-tearful  laughter.  She  was  playing  a  game,  her 
whole  intelligence  bent  on  the  playing  of  it  skilfully.  Yet  she 
was  genuinely  touched.  She  was  swayed  by  her  very  real 
emotion.  She  spoke  from  her  heart,  though  every  word,  every 
passing  action,  subserved  her  ultimate  purpose  in  regard  to 
Richard  Calmady. 

"  And,  after  all,  one  must  retain  some  remnant  of  self-respect 
with  which  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  one's —  Oh  yes  !  decidedly, 
Morabita's  voice  had  best  do  the  rest !  " 

Richard  had  moved  from  his  station  in  the  window.  He 
stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  sofa,  resting  his  hands  on  the  gilded 
and  carven  arm  of  it.  Now  the  ungainliness  of  his  deformity 
was  hidden,  and  his  height  was  greater  than  that  of  his  com- 
panion, obliging  her  to  look  up  at  him. 

"  I  give  you  my  word,  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  notion 
what  you  are  driving  at." 

"  Driving  at,  driving  at?"  she  cried.  "Why,  the  self-evident 
truth  that  you  are  forcing  me  rather  brutally  to  pay  the  full  price 
of  my  weakness  in  coming  here,  in  permitting  myself  the  in- 
dulgence of  seeing  you  again.  You  told  me  directly  I  arrived, 
with  rather  cynical  frankness,  that  I  had  not  changed.  That  is 
quite  true.  What  I  was  at  Brockhurst,  four  years  ago,  what  I 
then  felt,  that  I  am  and  that  I  feel  still.  Oh!  you  have  nothing 
to  reproach  yourself  with  in  defect  of  plain  speaking,  or  excess  of 
amiable  subterfuge  !  You  hit  oirt  very  straight  from  the  shoulder ! 
Directly  I  arrived  you  also  told  me  how  you  had  devoted  this 
place — with  whif:h,  after  all,  I  am  not  wholly  unconnected — to 
the  cult,  to  the  ideal  worship,  of  a  woman  whom  you  loved." 
29 


450  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  So  1  have  devoted  it,"  Richard  said. 

"  And  yet  I  was  weak  enough  to  remain  ! " 

The  young  man's  face  relaxed,  but  its  expression  remained 
enigmatic. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because,  in  remaining,  I  have  laid  myself  open  to  miscon- 
struction, to  all  manner  of  pains  and  penalties,  not  easy  to  be 
endured,  to  the  odious  certainty  of  appearing  contemptible  in 
your  estimation  as  well  as  in  my  own." 

Helen  patted  her  pretty  foot  upon  the  floor  in  a  small  frenzy 
of  irritation. 

"  How  can  I  hope  to  escape,  since  even  the  precious  being 
whom  you  affect  to  worship  you  keep  sternly  at  arm's  length — 
that  is  among  the  other  pleasing  things  you  confided  to  me  im- 
mediately on  my  arrival — lest,  seen  at  close  quarters,  she  should 
fall  below  your  requirements  and  so  you  should  suffer  disillusion  ? 
Ah !  you  are  frightfully  cold-blooded,  repulsively  inhuman ! 
Whether  you  judge  others  by  yourself,  reckoning  them  equally 
devoid  of  natural  feeling,  or  whether  you  find  a  vindictive  relish 
in  rejecting  the  friendship  and  affection  so  lavishly  offered 
you  " — 

"Is  it  offered  lavishly?  That  comes  as  news  to  me,"  he 
put  in. 

"  Ah  1  but  it  is.  And  I  leave  you  to  picture  the  pleasing  en- 
tertainment afforded  the  offerer  in  seeing  you  ignore  the  offering, 
or,  worse  still,  take  it,  examine  it,  and  throw  it  aside  like  a  dirty 
rag !  In  one  case  you  underline  your  rejection  almost  to  the 
point  of  insult." 

"  This  is  very  instructive.  I  am  learning  a  whole  lot  about 
myself,"  Richard  said  coolly. 

"But  look,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  cried,  "do  you  not  prefer 
exposing  yourself  to  the  probability  of  serious  illness  rather  than 
remain  under  the  same  roof  with  me  ?  The  inference  hits  one  in 
the  face.  To  you  the  pestilential  exhalations,  the  unspeakable 
abominations,  of  Naples  harbour  appear  less  dangerous  than  my 
near  neighbourhood." 

"You  put  it  more  strongly  than  I  should,"  he  answered, 
smiling.     "  Yet,  from  a  certain  standpoint,  that  may  very  well  be 


true." 


For  an  instant  Helen  hesitated.  Her  intelligence,  for  all  its 
alertness,  was  strained  exactly  to  appraise  the  value  of  his  words, 
neither  over,  nor  under,  rating  it.  And  her  eyes  searched  his  with 
a  certain  boldness  and  imperiousness  of  gaze.  Richard,  mean- 
while, folding  his  arms  upon  the  carven  and  gilt  frame  of  the  sofa, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  451 

looked  back  at  her,  smiling  still,  at  once  ironically  and  very  sadly. 
Then  s^dft  assurance  came  to  her  of  the  brazen  card  she  had  best 
play.  But,  playing  it,  she  was  constrained  to  avert  her  eyes  and 
set  her  glance  pensively  upon  the  light-visited  surface  of  her 
crocus-yellow,  silken  lap. 

"  I  will  do  my  possible  to  accept  your  nightly  journeys  as  a 
compliment  in  disguise,  then,"  she  said,  quite  softly.  "  For  truly, 
when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  were  she,  herself,  here — she,  the 
woman  you  so  religiously  admire  that  you  take  an  infinitude  of 
pains  to  avoid  having  anything  on  earth  to  do  with  her — were  she 
herself  here,  you  could  hardly  take  more  extensive  measures  to 
secure  yourself  against  risk  of  disappointment,  hardly  exercise  a 
greater  range  of  caution  ! " 

"  Perhaps  that's  just  it.  Perhaps  you  have  arrived  at  it  all 
at  last.     Perhaps  she  is  here,"  he  said. 

And  he  turned  away,  steadying  himself  with  one  hand  against 
the  jamb  of  the  window,  and  shuffled  out  slowly,  laboriously, 
on  to  the  balcony  into  the  night. 

For  a  quite  perceptible  length  of  time  Helen  de  Vallorbes 
continued  to  contemplate  the  light-visited  surface  of  her  crocus- 
yellow,  silken  lap.  She  followed  the  lines  of  the  rich  pattern — 
pomegranate,  fruit  and  blossom,  trailing  peacock's  feather.  For 
by  such  mechanical  employment  alone  could  she  keep  the 
immensity  of  her  excitement  and  of  her  triumph  in  check.  To 
shout  aloud,  to  dance,  to  run  wildly  to  and  fro,  would  have  been 
only  too  possible  to  her  just  then.  All  that  for  which  she  had 
schemed,  had  ruled  herself  discreetly,  had  ridden  a  waiting  race, 
had  been  hers,  in  fact,  from  the  first— the  prize  adjudged  before 
ever  she  left  the  starting-post.  She  held  this  man  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand;  and  that  by  no  result  of  cunning  artifice,  but  by 
right  divine  of  beauty  and  wit  and  the  manifold  seductions  of  her 
richly-endowed  personality.  And,  thinking  of  that,  she  clenched 
her  dainty  fists,  opened  them  again,  and  again  clenched  them, 
ujjon  the  yielding  mattress  of  the  sofa,  given  over  to  an  ecstasy 
of  physical  enjoyment,  weaving,  even  as,  with  clawed  and  padded 
j;aws,  her  prototype  the  she-panther  might.  Slowly  she  raised 
her  downcast  eyes  and  looked  after  Richard  Calmady,  his  figure 
a  blackness,  as  of  vacancy,  against  the  elaborate  wrought-iron- 
work  of  the  balcony.  And  so  doing,  an  adorable  sensation 
moved  her,  at  once  of  hungry  tenderness  and  of  fear — fear  of 
something  unknown,  in  a  way  fundamental,  incalculable,  the  like 
of  which  she  had  never  experienced  before.  Ah!  indeed,  of  all 
her  many  loves,  here  was  the  crown  and  climax  !  Yet,  in  the 
midst  of   her   very  vital  ra{)ture,   she   could   still   find   time   for 


452  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

remembrance  of  the  little,  crescent-shaped  scar  upon  her 
temple,  and  for  remembrance  of  Katherine  Calmady,  who  had, 
unwittingly,  fixed  that  blemish  upon  her  and  had  also  more 
than  once  frustrated  her  designs.  This  time  frustration  was  not 
possible.  She  was  about  to  revenge  the  infliction  of  that  little 
scar !  And,  all  the  while,  the  intellectual  part  of  her  was 
agreeably  intrigued,  trying  to  disentangle  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  Richard's  late  action  and  utterances.  And  self-love  was 
gratified  to  the  highest  height  of  its  ambition  by  the  knowledge 
that  not  only  in  his  heart  had  she  long  reigned,  but  that  he  had 
dedicated  time  and  wealth  and  refined  ingenuity  to  the  idea  of 
her,  to  her  worship,  to  the  making  of  this,  her  former  dwelling- 
place,  into  a  temple  for  her  honour,  a  splendid  witness  to  her 
victorious  charm,  a  shrine  not  unfitting  to  contain  the  idol  of  his 
imagination. 

For  a  little  space  she  rested  in  all  this,  savouring  the 
sweetness  of  it  as  some  odour  of  costly  sacrifice.  For,  whatever 
her  sins  and  lapses,  Helen  de  Vallorbes  had  the  fine  aesthetic 
appreciations,  as  well  as  the  inevitable  animality,  of  the  great 
courtesan.  The  artist  was  at  least  as  present  in  her  as  the 
whore.  And  it  was  not,  therefore,  until  realisation  of  her 
present  felicity  was  complete,  until  it  had  soaked  into  her,  so  to 
speak,  to  the  extent  of  a  delicious  familiarity,  that  she  was  dis- 
posed to  seek  change  of  posture  or  of  place.  Then,  at  last, 
softly,  languidly,  for  indeed  she  was  somewhat  spent  by  the 
manifold  emotions  of  the  day,  she  rose  and  followed  Richard 
into  the  starless,  low-lying  night.  Her  first  words  were  very 
simple,  yet  to  herself  charged  with  far-reaching  meaning — as  a 
little  key  may  give  access  to  a  treasure-chest  containing  riches 
of  fabulous  worth. 

"Richard,  is  it  really  true,  that  which  you  have  told  me?" 

"  What  conceivable  object  could  I  have  in  lying  ?  " 

"  Then  why  have  you  delayed  ? — why  wasted  the  precious 
days — the  precious  months  and  years,  if  it  comes  to  that  ?  " 

"  How  in  honour  and  decency  could  I  do  otherwise — circum- 
stances being  such  as  they  are,  I  being  that  which  I  am?" 

The  two  voices  were  in  notable  contrast.  Both  were  low, 
both  were  penetrated  by  feeling.  But  the  man's  was  hoarse  and 
rasping,  the  woman's  smooth  and  soft  as  milk. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  the  old  story  ! "  she  said.  "  Will  you  never  com- 
prehend, Dickie,  that  what  is  to  you  hateful  in  yourself,  may  to 
someone  else  be  the  last  word  of  attraction,  of  seduction,  even  ?  " 

"  God  forbid  I  should  ever  comprehend  that ! "  he  answered. 
"  When  I  take  to  glorying  in  my  shame,  pluming  myself  upon 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  453 

my  abnormality,  then,  indeed,  I  become  beyond  all  example 
loathsome.  The  most  deplorable  moment  of  my  very  inglorious 
career  will  be  precisely  that  in  which  I  cease  to  look  at  myself 
with  dispassionate  contempt." 

Helen  knelt  down,  resting  her  beautiful  arms  upon  the  dark 
handrail  of  the  balcony,  letting  her  wrists  droop  over  it  into  the 
outer  dimness.  The  bland  light  from  the  open  window  dwelt  on 
her  kneeling  figure  and  bowed  head.  But  it  was  as  well,  perhaps, 
that  the  night  dropped  a  veil  upon  her  face. 

"  And  yet  so  it  is,"  she  said.  "  You  may  repudiate  the  idea, 
but  the  fact  remains.  I  do  not  say  it  would  affect  all  women 
alike — affect  those,  for  instance,  whose  conception  of  love,  and 
of  the  relation  between  man  and  woman,  is  dependent  upon  the 
slightly  improper  and  very  tedious  marriage  service  as  authorised 
by  the  English  Church.  Let  the  conventional  be  conventional 
still !  So  much  the  better  if  you  don't  appeal  to  them— meagre, 
timid,  inadequate,  respectable — a  generation  of  fashion-plates 
with  a  sixpenny  book  of  etiquette,  moral  and  social,  stuck  inside 
them  to  serve  for  a  soul." 

Helen's  voice  broke  in  a  little  spasm  of  laughter ;  and  her 
hands  began,  unconsciously,  to  open  and  close,  open  and  close, 
weaving  in  soft,  outer  darkness. 

"  We  may  leave  them  out  of  the  argument. — But  there  remain 
the  elect,  Richard,  among  whom  I  dare  count  myself.  And 
over  them,  never  doubt  it,  just  that  which  you  hate  and  which 
appears  at  first  sight  to  separate  you  so  cruelly  from  other  men, 
gives  you  a  strange  empire.  You  stimulate,  you  arrest,  you 
satisfy  one's  imagination,  as  does  the  spectacle  of  some  great 
drama.  You  are  at  once  enslaved  and  emancipated  by  this 
thing — to  you  hateful,  to  me  adorable — beyond  all  measure  of 
bondage  or  freedom  inflicted  upon,  or  enjoyed  by,  other  men. 
And  in  this,  just  this,  lies  magnificent  compensation  if  you  would 
but  see  it.  I  have  always  known  that — known  that  if  you  would 
put  aside  your  arrogance  and  pride,  and  yield  yourself  a  little,  it 
w.Ts  possible  to  love  you,  and  give  you  such  joy  in  loving,  as  one 
c(juld  give  to  no  one  else  on  earth." 

Her  voice  sweetened  yet  more.  She  leaned  forward,  pressing 
her  bosom  against  the  rough  ironwork  of  tin;  balcony. 

"I  knew  that  from  the  first  hour  wc  met  in  the  variegated, 
autumn  sunshine,  u[)on  the  green-sward,  before  the  white  sunmier- 
house  overlooking  that  noble,  English,  woodland  view.  I  saw 
you,  and  so  doing  I  saw  mysteries  of  joy  in  myself  uniningined 
l)y  me  before.  It  went  very  hard  with  me  then,  Richard.  It 
has  gone  very  hard  with  me  ever  since." 


454  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Madame  de  Vallorbes'  words  died  away  in  a  grave  and  delicate 
whisper.  But  she  did  not  turn  her  head,  nor  did  Richard  speak. 
Only,  close  there  beside  her,  she  heard  him  breathe,  panting 
short  and  quick  even  as  a  dog  pants,  while  a  certain  viliration 
seemed  to  run  along  the  rough  ironwork  against  which  she 
leaned.  And  by  these  signs  Helen  judged  her  speech,  though 
unanswered,  had  not  been  wholly  in  vain.  From  below,  the 
luscious  fragrance  of  the  garden,  the  chime  of  falling  water,  and 
the  urgent  voice  of  the  painted  pleasure-city  came  up  about  her. 
Night  had  veiled  the  face  of  Naples,  even  as  Helen's  own.  Yet 
lines  of  innumerable  lights  described  the  suave  curve  of  the 
bay,  climbed  the  heights  of  Posilipo,  were  doubled  in  the  oily 
waters  of  the  harbour,  spread  abroad  alluring  gaiety  in  the  wide 
piazzas,  and  shone  like  watchful  and  soliciting  eyes  from  out  the 
darkness  of  narrow  street,  steep  lane,  and  cut-throat  alley.  While, 
above  all  that,  high  uplifted  against  the  opacity  of  the  starless 
sky,  a  blood-red  beacon  burned  on  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  the 
sombre  glow  of  it  reflected  upon  the  under  side  of  the  masses  of 
downward-rolling  smoke  as  upon  the  belly  of  some  slow-crawling, 
monstrous  serpent. 

Suddenly  Helen  spoke  once  again,  and  with  apparent  incon- 
sequence. 

"  Richard,  you  must  have  known  she  could  never  satisfy  you 
— why  did  you  try  to  marry  Constance  Quayle  ?  " 

"To  escape." 

"  From  whom — from  me  ?  " 

"  From  myself,  which  is  much  the  same  thing  as  saymg  from 
you,  I  suppose." 

"  And  you  could  not  escape  ?  " 

"  So  it  seems." 

"  But — but,  dear  Richard,"  she  said  plaintively,  yet  with  very 
winning  sweetness,  "  why,  after  all,  should  you  want  so  desperately 
to  escape  ?  " 

Richard  moved  a  little  farther  from  her. 

"  I  have  already  explained  that  to  you,  to  the  point  of  insult 
so  you  tell  me,"  he  said.  "Surely  it  is  unnecessary  to  go  over 
the  ground  again  ?  " 

"  You  carry  your  idealism  to  the  verge  of  slight  absurdity," 
she  answered.  "  Oh !  you  of  altogether  too  little  faith,  how 
should  you  gauge  the  full  flavour  of  the  fruit  till  you  have  set 
your  teeth  in  it  ?  Better,  far  better,  be  a  sacramentalist  like  me 
and  embrace  the  idea  through  the  act,  than  refuse  the  act  in 
dread  of  imperilling  the  dominion  of  the  idea.  You  put  the  cart 
before  the  horse  with  a  vengeance,  Dickie  !     There's  such  a  thing 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  455 

as  being  so  reverently-minded  towards  your  god  that  he  ceases 
to  be  the  very  least  profit  or  use  to  you." 

And  again  she  heard  that  panting  breath  beside  her.  Again 
laughter  bubbled  up  in  her  fair  throat,  and  her  hands  fell  to 
weaving  the  soft,  outer  darkness. 

"  You  must  perceive  that  it  cannot  end  here  and  thus,"  she 
said  presently. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered. — Then,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
he  added,  coldly  enough : — "  I  foresaw  that,  so  I  gave  orders 
yesterday  that  the  yacht  was  not  to  be  laid  up,  but  only  to  coal 
and  provision,  and  undergo  some  imperatively  necessary  repairs. 
She  should  be  ready  for  sea  by  the  end  of  the  week." 

Helen  turned  sideways,  and  the  bland  light,  from  the  room 
within,  touched  her  face  now  as  well  as  her  kneeling  figure. 

"  And  then,  and  then  ?  "'  she  demanded,  almost  violently. 

"  Then  I  shall  go,"  Richard  replied.  "  Where,  I  do  not  yet 
know,  but  as  far,  anyhow,  as  the  coal  in  the  yacht's  bunkers  will 
drive  her.  Distance  is  more  important  than  locality  just  now. 
And  I  leave  you  here  at  the  villa,  Helen.  Do  not  regret  that 
you  came.     I  dont." 

He  too  had  turned  to  the  liglit,  which  revealed  his  face 
ravaged  and  aged  by  stress  of  emotion,  revealed  too  the  homeless- 
ness,  as  of  empty  space,  resident  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  remember  the  place  pleases  and  speaks  to 
you.  It  has  been  rather  a  haven  of  rest  to  me  during  these 
last  two  years.  You  would  have  had  it  at  my  death,  in  any  case. 
You  have  it  a  little  sooner — that's  all." 

But  Helen  held  out  her  arms. 

"The  villa,  the  villa,"  she  cried,  "what  do  I  want  with  that ! 
flod  in  heaven,  are  you  utterly  devoid  of  all  sensibility,  all  heart  ? 
Or  are  you  afraid  —  afraid  even  yet,  oh,  very  chicken-livered 
l(jver — that  behind  the  beauty  of  Naples  you  may  find  the  filth? 
It  is  not  so,  Dickie.  It  is  not  so,  I  tell  you. — Look  at  me. 
What  would  you  have  more?  Surely,  for  any  man,  my  love  is 
good  enough  ! " 

And  then  hurriedly,  with  a  rustling  of  silken  skirts,  hot  with 
anger  from  head  to  heel,  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

Across  the  room  one  of  the  men-servants  advanced. 

"The  carriage  is  at  the  d(Jor,  sir,"  he  said. 

And  Madame  de  Yallorbes'  voice  broke  in  with  a  singular 
lightness  and  nonchalance: — 

"  Surely  it  is  rather  imprudent  l(j  go  out  again  to-night  ?  You 
told  me,  at  dinner,  you  were  not  well,  that  you  had  had  a  touch 
of  fever." 


456  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

She  held  out  her  hand,  smiling  serenely. 

"  Be  advised,"  she  said,  "  avoid  malaria. — I  shall  see  you 
before  I  go  to-morrow?  Yes — an  afternoon  train,  I  think. 
Good-night,  we  meet  at  breakfast  as  usual." 

She  stepped  in  at  the  window,  gathered  up  certain  small 
properties — a  gold  scent-bottle,  one  or  two  books,  a  blotting-case, 
as  with  a  view  to  final  packing  and  departure.  Just  as  she 
reached  the  door  she  heard  Richard  say  curtly  : — 

"Send  the  carriage  round.     I  shall  not  want  it  to-night." 

But  even  so  Helen  did  not  turn  back.  On  the  contrary,  she 
ran,  light  of  foot  as  the  little  dancer,  of  long  ago,  with  blush-roses 
in  her  hat,  through  all  the  suite  of  lofty  rooms  to  her  own  sea- 
blue,  sea-green  bed-chamber,  and  there,  sitting  down  before  the 
toilet-table,  greeted  her  own  radiant  image  in  the  glass.  Her  lips 
were  very  red.     Her  eyes  shone  like  pale  stars  on  a  windy  night. 

"  Quick,  quick,  undress  me,  Zelie  !  Put  me  to  bed.  I  am 
simply  expiring  of  fatigue,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CONCEKXIXG    THAT   DAUGHTER   OF    CUPID    AND    PSYCHK    WHOM 

MEN    CALL    VOLUPTAS 

THE  furniture,  though  otherwise  of  the  customary  proportions, 
had  all  been  dwarfed.  This  had  been  achieved  in  some 
cases  by  ingenious  design  in  its  construction,  in  others  by  the 
simple  process  of  cutting  down,  thus  reducing  table  and  chair, 
couch  and  bureau,  in  itself  of  whatever  grace  of  style,  dignity 
of  age,  or  fineness  of  workmanship,  to  an  equality  of  uncomely 
degradation  in  respect  of  height.  The  resultant  effect  was  of 
false  perspective.  Nor  was  this  unpleasing  effect  lessened  by 
the  proportions  of  the  room  itself.  In  common  with  all  those 
of  the  entresol,  it  was  noticeably  low  in  relation  to  its  length  and 
width,  while  the  stunted  vaultings  of  its  darkly-frescoed  ceiling 
produced  an  impression  of  heaviness  rather  than  of  space. 
Bookcases,  dwarfed  as  were  all  the  other  furnishings,  lined  the 
walls  to  within  about  two  feet  of  the  spring  of  the  said  vaulting. 
Made  of  red  cedar  and  unpolished,  the  cornices  and  uprights  of 
them  were  carved  with  arabesques  in  high  relief.  An  antique, 
Persian  carpet,  sombre  in  colouring  and  of  great  value,  covered 
the  greater  portion  of  the  pale,  pink  and  grey,  mosaic  pavement  of 
the  floor.     Thick,  rusty-red,  Genoa-velvet  curtains  were  drawn 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  457 

over  each  low,  square  window.  A  fire  of  logs  burned  on  the 
open  hearth.  And  this,  notwithstanding  the  unaccustomed 
warmth  of  the  outside  air,  did  but  temper  the  chill  atmosphere 
of  the  room  and  serve  to  draw  a  faint  aroma  from  the  carven 
cedar  wood. 

It  was  here,  to  his  library, — carried  downstairs  by  his  men- 
servants  as  a  helpless  baby-child  might  be, — that  Richard 
Calmady  had  come  when  Helen  de  Vallorbes  departed  so 
blithely  to  her  bed-chamber.  And  it  was  here  he  remained, 
though  nearly  two  hours  had  elapsed  since  then,  finding  sleep 
impossible. 

For  the  wakefulness  and  unrest  of  rapidly  breeding  illness 
were  upon  him.  His  senses  and  his  will  had  been  in  very  active 
conflict.  Desire  had  licked  him,  as  with  fiery  tongues,  driving 
him  onward.  Honour,  self-contempt  in  face  of  temptation 
to  sensual  indulgence,  an  aspiration  after  somewhat  stoic 
asceticism  which  had  come  to  influence  his  action  of  late,  held 
him  back.  But  now,  here  and  alone,  the  immediately  provoking 
cause  of  passion  removed,  reaction  against  the  strain  of  all  that 
had  very  sensibly  set  in.  He  felt  strangely  astray,  as  though 
drifting  at  hazard  upon  the  waters  of  an  unquiet,  mist-blinded 
sea.  He  was  conscious  of  a  deep-seated  preoccupation  regarding 
some  matter,  which  he  was  alike  unable  to  forget  or  to  define. 
Formless  images  perplexed  his  vision.  Formless  thoughts 
pursued  one  another,  as  with  the  hurry  of  rumoured  calamity, 
through  his  mind.  A  desolating  apprehension  of  things  in- 
sufficiently developed,  of  the  inconclusive,  the  immature,  the 
unattained,  of  things  mutilated,  things  unfinished,  born  out  of 
due  time  and  incomplete,  oppressed  his  fancy.  Even  the  events 
of  the  last  few  hours,  in  which  he  had  played  so  considerable  a 
part,  took  on  a  shadowy  semblance,  ceased  to  appeal  to  him  as 
realities,  began  to  merge  themselves  in  that  all-pervading  appre- 
hension of  defectiveness,  of  that  which  is  wanting,  lopped  off,  so 
to  speak,  and  docked.  It  was  to  him  as  though  all  natural, 
common-sense  relations  were  in  abeyance,  as  though  his  own, 
usually  precise,  mental  processes  were  divorced  from  reason  and 
experience,  had  got  out  of  perspective,  in  short — even  as  this  low, 
wide,  cedar-scented  library,  of  which  the  vaulted  ceiling  seemed 
to  approach  unduly  close  to  the  marijle  floor,  and  all  its 
dwarfed  furnishings,  its  Sfjuat  tables  and  almost  legless  chairs, 
had  got  out  of  perspertive. 

The  alternate  purposeless  energy  and  weariful  weakness  of 
fever,  just  as  the  alternate  dry  flusli  and  trembling  chill  of  it, 
distressed  him.     He  had  slip{)ed  (;ii  a  smoking-coat,  but  even 


45S  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  weight  of  this  thin,  silk  garment  seemed  oppressive,  although, 
now  and  again,  he  felt  as  though  around  his  middle  he  wore  a 
belt  of  ice.  Not  without  considerable  exertion  he  rolled  forward 
a  couch — wide,  high-backed,  legless,  mounted  upon  little  wheels 
— to  the  vicinity  of  the  fire.  He  drew  himself  up  on  to  it  and 
rested  among  the  piled-up  cushions.  Perhaps,  if  he  waited, 
exercising  patience,  sleep  might  mercifully  visit  him  and  deliver 
him  from  this  intolerable  confusion  of  mind.  Deliver  him,  too, 
from  that  hideous  apprehension  of  universal  mutilation,  of 
maimed  purposes,  maimed  happenings,  of  a  world  peopled  by 
bjings  maimed  as  he  was  himself,  but  after  a  more  subtle  and 
intimate  fashion — a  fashion  intellectual  or  moral  rather  than 
merely  physical— so  that  they  had  to  him,  just  now,  an  added 
hatefulness  of  specious  lying,  since  to  ordinary  seeing  they 
appeared  whole,  while  whole  they  truly  and  actually  were 
not. 

Sternly  he  tried  to  shake  himself  free  of  these  morbid  fancies, 
to  bring  his  imagination  under  control  and  force  himself  once 
again  to  join  hands  with  reality  and  common  sense.  And,_  to 
this  end,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  consideration  of  practical 
matters.  He  dwelt  on  the  details  of  the  coaling  and  revictualling 
of  his  yacht,  upon  the  objective  of  the  voyage  upon  which  he 
proposed  to  start  a  few  days  hence.  He  reviewed  the  letters 
which  must  be  written  and  the  arrangements  which  must  be 
made  with  a  view  to  putting  his  cousin  legally  in  possession 
of  the  villa,  the  rent  of  which  he  proposed  still  to  pay  to  her 
husband.  This  suite  of  rooms  he  would  retain  for  his  own  use. 
That  was  necessary,  obligatory.  Yet,  why  must  he  retain  it? 
He  did  not  propose  to  return  and  live  here  at  any  future  time. 
This  episode  was  over — or  rather,  had  it  not  simply  failed  of 
completion  ?  Was  it  not,  like  all  the  rest,  maimed,  lopped  off, 
ungainly  docked  ?  Then,  where  came  in  the  obligation  to  reserve 
these  rooms  ?  He  could  not  remember.  Yet  he  knew  that  he 
was  compelled  to  do  so,  because — because — 

And,  once  again,  Richard's  power  of  concentration  broke 
down.  Once  again  his  thought  eluded  him,  becoming  tangled, 
fugitive,  not  to  be  grasped.  While,  like  swarms  of  shrill  squeak- 
ing bats  disturbed  in  the  recesses  of  some  age-old  cavern  by 
sudden  intrusion  of  voices  and  of  lights,  half-formed  visions, 
half-formed  ideas,  once  again  fiapped  duskily  about  him, 
torturing  in  their  multiplicity  alike  to  his  senses  and  his  brain. 
He  fought  with  them,  striving  to  beat  them  off  in  a  madness  of 
disgust,  half  suffocated  by  the  fanning  of  their  foul  and  stifling 
wings.     Then,  exhausted  by  the  conflict,  he  stumbled  and  fell, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  459 

while  they  closed  down  on  him.  And  he,  losing  consciousness, 
slept. 

That  unconsciousness  lasted  in  point  of  fact  but  for  a  few 
minutes.  Yet  to  Richard  those  minutes  were  as  years,  as 
centuries.  At  length,  still  heavy  with  dreamless  slumber,  he 
was  aware  of  the  stealthy  turning  of  a  key  in  a  lock.  Little 
padding  foot-falls,  soft  as  those  of  some  strong,  yet  dainty,  cat- 
creature  crossed  the  carpet.  A  whisper  of  silk  came  along  with 
them,  like  the  murmur  of  the  breeze  in  an  oak  grove  on  a  clear, 
hot,  summer  noon,  or  the  sibilant  ripple  of  the  sea  upon  spaces 
of  fine-ribbed,  yellow  sand.  And  the  impression  produced  upon 
Richard  was  delicious,  as  of  one  passing  from  a  close  room  into 
the  open  air.  Confusion  and  exhaustion  left  him.  Energy 
returned.  The  energy  of  breeding  fever  merely ;  yet  to  him  it 
appeared  that  of  refreshment,  of  renewed  and  abounding  health. 
He  was  conscious,  too,  of  a  will  outside  himself,  acting  upon  his 
will — a  will  self-secure,  impregnable,  working  with  triumphant 
daring  toward  a  single  end.  It  certainly  was  unmaimed — in  its 
present  manifestation  in  any  case.  It  told,  and  with  assurance, 
of  completion,  of  attainment.  Yielding  himself  to  it,  with  some- 
thing of  the  recklessness  a  man  yields  himself  to  the  poison 
which  yet  promises  relief,  Richard  opened  his  eyes. 

Before  him  stood  Helen  de  Vallorbes.  In  one  hand  she 
carried  a  little  lamp.  In  the  other  her  high-heeled,  cloth-of-gold 
slippers.  Her  feet  were  bare.  In  the  haste  of  the  journey,  from 
her  bed-chamber  upstairs  through  the  great  rooms  and  down  the 
marble  stairs,  the  fronts  of  the  sea-blue,  sea-green  dressing-gown 
she  wore  had  flown  apart,  thus  disclosing  not  only  her  delicate 
night-dress,  but— since  this  last  was  fine  to  the  point  of  trans- 
parency— all  the  secret  loveliness  of  her  body  and  her  limbs. 
Her  shining  hair  curled  low  upon  her  forehead,  half  concealed 
her  pretty  cars,  and  lay  upon  her  shoulders  like  a  little,  golden 
cape.  And,  from  out  this  brightness  of  her  hair,  the  exultant 
laughter  bubbling  in  her  throat,  the  small  lamp  carried  high  in 
one  hand,  she  looked  down  at  Richard  Calmady. 

"  I  waited  till  the  hours  grew  old  and  you  did  not  come  to 
me,  so  I  have  come  to  you,  Dickie,"  she  said.  "  Let  what  will 
happen  to-morrow,  this  very  certainly  shall  happen  to-night — 
that  with  you  and  me  Love  shall  have  his  own  way,  speak  his 
own  language,  be  worshipped  with  the  rites,  be  found  in  the 
sacraments,  ordained  by  himself,  and  to  which  all  nature  is,  and 
has  been,  obedient  since  life  on  earth  first  bigan  !  " 

Helen  set  down  her  lamp,  !et  drop  her  slippers  upon  the 
floor,  sprang  across  the  intervening  space,  fierce,  yet  graceful,  as 


460  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

some  lithe  and  nmorous  beast,  flung  herself  down  beside  Richard 
Calmady  upon  the  couch,  and  caressed  him  with  quick,  lascivious 
fingers,  while  her  lips  fastened  on  his  lips. 

Not  till  the  grey  of  a  rain-washed,  windy  morning  had  come, 
and  Naples  had  put  off  its  merry  einning,  changing  from  a  city 
of  pleasure  to  a  city  of  labour  and,  too  often,  of  callously  inflicted 
pain,  did  Helen  de  Vallorbes  leave  the  cedar-scented  library. 
The  fire  of  logs  had  burnt  itself  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  other 
fires,  perhaps,  had  pretty  thoroughly  burnt  themselves  out  like- 
wise. Then,  with  the  extinguished  lamp  in  one  hand  and  her 
high-heeled,  cloth-of-gold  slippers  in  the  other,  she  had  run 
swiftly,  barefoot,  up  the  cold,  marble  stairs,  through  the  suite 
of  lofty  rooms,  her  image,  in  the  bleak  dimness  of  the  wet 
morning,  given  back  by  their  tall  mirrors  as  that  of  no  mortal 
woman  but  some  fear-driven,  hurrying  ghost.  Carefully  closing 
the  door  of  the  bed-chamber  behind  her,  she  threw  her  dressing- 
gown  aside  and  buried  herself  in  the  luxurious  softness  of  the 
unslept-in  bed.  And  she  was  only  just  in  time.  Servants  began 
to  move  to  and  fro.     The  house  was  awake. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    ABOMINATION    OF    DESOLATION 

SULLENLY,  persistently,  the  rain  came  down.  In  the 
harbour  the  wash  was  just  sufficient  to  make  the  ravelled 
fruit-baskets,  the  shredded  vegetables,  the  crusts  and  offal  thrown 
out  from  the  galleys,  heave  and  sway  upon  the  oily  surface  of 
the  water,  while  screaming  gulls  dropped  greedily  upon  the 
floating  refuse,  and  rising,  circled  over  the  black,  liquid  lanes  and 
open  spaces  between  the  hulls  of  the  many  ships.  But  it  was 
insufficient  to  lift  the  yacht,  tied  up  to  the  southern  quay  of  the 
Porto  Grande.  She  lay  there  inert  and  in  somewhat  sorry  plight 
under  the  steady  downpour.  For  the  moment  all  the  winsome 
devilry  of  a  smart,  sea-going  craft  was  dead  in  her ;  and  she 
sulked,  ashamed  through  all  her  eight  hundred  tons  of  wood 
and  iron,  copper,  brass,  and  steel.  For  she  was  coaling  over- 
deck,  and  was  grimy  from  stem  to  stern.  While,  arrayed  in  the 
cast  clothes  of  all  Europe,  tattered,  undersized,  gesticulating, 
the  human  scum  of  Naples  swarmed  up  the  steep,  narrow  planks 
from  the  inky  lighters  and  in  over  her  side. 

"Beastly  dirty  job  this.     Shan't  get  her  paint  clean  under  a 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  461 

week  ! "  the  first  mate  grumbled  to  his  companion,  the  second 
mate — a  dark-haired,  dreamy-eyed,  West-country  lad,  but  just 
out  of  his  teens. 

The  two  officers,  in  dripping  oilskins,  stood  at  the  gangway 
checking  the  tally  of  coal-baaket3  as  they  came  on  board.  Just 
now  there  was  a  pause  in  the  black  procession,  as  an  empty 
lighter  sheered  off,  making  room  for  a  full  one  to  come  along- 
side, thus  rendering  conversation  momentarily  possible. 

"  Pity  the  Boss  couldn't  have  stayed  on  shore  till  we  were 
through  with  it  and  cleaned  up  a  bit,"  the  speaker  continued. 
"  Makes  the  old  man  no  end  waxy  to  have  anyone  on  board 
when  the  yacht's  like  she  is.  I  don't  blame  him.  She's  as  neat 
and  pretty  as  a  white  daisy  in  a  green  pasture  when  she's  away 
to  sea.     And  now,  poor  little  soul,  she's  a  regular  slut." 

"  I  know  Pd  'ave  stayed  ashore  fast  enough  if  I  was  the  Boss," 
the  boy  said,  half  wistfully.  "  That  villa  of  his  is  like  a  piece  of 
poetry.     I  keep  on  saying  over  to  myself  how  it  looks." 

"Oh!  it's  not  so  bad  for  foreign  parts,"  the  senior  officer 
replied.  "And  you're  young  yet  and  soft,  Penberthy.  You'll 
come  off  that  presently.  England's  best  for  house.s,  town  and 
country ;  and  most  other  things — women,  and  fights,  and  even 
sunshine,  for  when  you  do  get  sunshine  at  home  there's  no 
.spite  in  it. — Hi !  there,  you,  ganger,"  he  shouted  suddenly,  and 
resentfully,  leaning  out  over  the  bulwarks,  "  hurry  'em  up  a  bit, 
can't  you  ?  You  don't  suppose  I  mean  to  stand  here  till  the 
second  anniversary  of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  watching  your  blither- 
ing, chicken-shanked  macaronies  suck  rotten  oranges,  do  you  ? 
Start  'em  up  again.  Whatever  are  you  waiting  for,  man  ?  Start 
'em  up,  I  say." 

The  boy's  dreamy  eyes,  full  of  unwritten  verse,  dwelt  with  a 
curious  indifference  upon  the  broken  procession  of  ascending, 
black  figures.  He  had  but  lately  joined,  and  to  him  both  the 
fine  Vessel  and  her  owner  were  invested  with  a  certain  romance. 

"What  was  the  fancy  for  calling  the  yacht  the  Reprieve}'''' 
he  asked  presently. 

"  Wait  till  you've  had  the  chance  to  take  a  good  look  at 
Sir  Richard,  and  you'll  answer  your  question  yourself,"  the  other 
man  answered  oracularly.  Then  he  broke  out  again  into  sus- 
tained invective  : — "  Hold  up  there,  you  little  fool  of  a  tight- 
rope-dancing, bella  Napoli  gorilla,  and  don't  go  dropping  good, 
honest,  Welsh  steam-coal  overboard  into  your  confounded,  stink- 
ing, local  sewer  !  I  don't  care  to  see  any  of  your  blamed  postur- 
ings,  don't  flatter  yourself.  Hold  up  your  grimacing,  great- 
grandson  of  a  lousy  she-ai)e,  can't  you,  and  walk  straight. — Take 


462  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

him  all  round  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  the  best  Boss  I  ever  sailed 
with — one  of  the  sternest,  but  the  civilest  too. — Shove  'em  along, 
ganger,  will  you  ?  Shove  'cm  along,  I  say. — He's  one  of  the  few 
men  I've  loved,  I'm  not  ashamed  to  say  it,  Mr.  Penbcrthy,  and 
about  the  only  one  I  ever  remember  to  have  feared,  in  all  my  life." 

Meanwhile,  if  the  scene  to  seaward  was  cheerless,  that  to 
landward  offered  but  small  improvement.  For  the  murk  of 
low-brooding  cloud  and  falling  rain  blotted  out  the  Castel  S.  Elmo, 
and  the  Capo  di  Monte  and  Pizzafalcone  heights.  Even  the 
Castello  del'Ovo  down  on  the  shore  line,  comparatively  near  at 
hand,  loomed  up  but  a  denser  mass  of  indigo-grey  amid  the  all 
obtaining  greyness.  The  tall  multi-coloured,  many-shuttered 
houses  fronting  the  quays — restaurants,  cafes,  money-changers' 
bureaux,  ships'  chandlers,  and  slop-shops — looked  tawdry  and 
degraded  as  a  clown's  painted  face  seen  by  daylight.  Thick, 
malodorous  vapours  arose  from  the  squalid  streets,  lying  back 
on  the  level,  and  from  the  crowded  shipping  of  the  port.  These 
hung  in  the  stagnant  air,  about  the  forest  of  masts  and  the 
funnels  of  steamers.  And  the  noise  of  the  place  was  as  that 
of  Bedlam  let  loose.— The  long-drawn,  chattering  rush  of  the 
coal  pitched  from  the  baskets  down  the  echoing,  iron  shoots. 
The  grate  and  scream  of  saws  cutting  through  blocks  of  stone 
and  marble.  The  grind  of  heavy  wheels  upon  the  broken, 
irregular  flags.  The  struggling  clatter  of  hoofs,  lashing  of  whips, 
squeal  of  mules,  savage  voices  raised  in  cries  and  imprecations. 
The  clank  and  roar  of  machinery.  The  repeated  bellowing  of  a 
great  liner,  blowing  off  steam  as  she  took  up  her  berth  in  the 
outer  harbour.  The  shattering  rattle  of  the  chains  of  a  steam 
crane,  when  the  monster  iron-arm  swung  round  seeking  or 
depositing  its  burden  and  the  crank  ran  out  in  harsh  anger, 
as  it  seemed,  and  defiance.  And  through  all  this,  as  under- 
current, the  confused  clamour  of  the  ever-shifting,  ever-present 
crowd,  and  the  small,  steady  drip  of  the  rain.  Squalid,  sordid, 
brutal  even,  the  coarse  actualities  of  her  trade  and  her  poverty 
alike  disclosed,  her  fictions  and  her  foulness  uncondoned  by 
reconciling  sunshine,  Naples  had  declined  from  radiant  goddess 
to  common  drab. 

It  was  in  this  character  that  Richard  Calmady,  driving 
yesterday  and  for  the  first  time  through  the  streets  at  noon,  had 
been  fated  to  see  his  so-fondly-idealised  city.  It  was  in  this 
character  that  he  apprehended  it  again  to-day,  waiting  in  his  deck- 
cabin  until  cessation  of  the  rain  and  on-coming  of  the  friendly  dusk 
should  render  it  not  wholly  odious  to  sit  out  on  deck.  The  hours 
lagged,  and  into  even  this  bright  and  usually  spotless  apartment 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  463 

— with  its  shining,  white  walls,  its  dark,  blue  leather  and  polished, 
mahogany  fittings — the  coal  dust  penetrated.  It  rimmed  the 
edge  of  the  books  neatly  ranged  on  the  racks.  It  smirched  the 
charts  laid  out  on  the  S(iuare  locker-table  below.  It  drifted  in  at 
the  cabin  windows,  along  with  the  babel  of  sound  and  the  all-per- 
vading stench  of  the  port.  This  was,  in  itself,  sufficiently  distasteful, 
sufficiently  depressing.  And  to  Richard,  just  now,  the  disgust  of 
it  came  with  the  heightened  sensibility  of  physical  illness,  and  as 
accompaniment  to  an  immense  private  shame  and  immense  self- 
condemnation,  a  conviction  of  outlawry  and  a  desolation  passing 
speech.  He  looked  for  comfort,  for  promise  of  restoration,  and 
found  none,  in  things  material  or  things  intellectual,  in  others  or 
in  himself.  For  his  mind,  always  prone  to  apprehend  by  images 
rather  than  by  words,  and  to  advance  by  analogy  rather  than  by 
argument,  discovered  in  surrounding  aspects  and  surrounding 
circumstance  a  rather  hideously  apt  parable  and  illustration  of  its 
present  state.  Just  as  this  seemingly  fair  city  was  proven,  on 
intimate  acquaintance,  repulsive  beyond  the  worst  he  had  ever 
feared  and  earnestly  refused  to  know  of  it,  so  a  certain  fair 
woman,  upon  whom,  since  boyhood,  his  best,  most  chivalrous, 
most  unselfish,  affections  had  centred,  was  proven — herself,  more- 
over, flagrantly  contributing  to  that  proving — vile  beyond  all 
that  rumour,  heard  and  passionately  denied  by  him,  had  ever 
ventured  to  whisper  concerning  her.  Nor  was  the  misery  of  this 
revelation  lessened  by  the  knowledge  that  his  own  part  in  it  all 
had  been  very  base.  He  had  sinned  before.  He  would  sin 
again  probably.  Richard  had  long  ceased  to  regard  these 
matters  from  a  strictly  puritanic  standpoint.  But  this  particular 
sinning  was  different  to  any  that  had  gone  before,  or  which  could 
come  after  it.  For  it  partook — so  at  least,  it  now  appeared  to 
him — of  the  nature  of  sacrilege,  since  he  had  sinned  against  his 
ideal,  degrading  that  to  gross  uses  which  he  had  agreed  with  him- 
self to  hold  sacred,  defiling  it  and,  thereby,  very  horribly  defiling 
himself. 

And  this  disgrace  of  their  relation,  his  own  and  hers,  the 
inherent  abomination  of  it  all  and  its  inherent  falsity,  had  been 
forced  home  on  him  with  a  certain  violence  of  directness  just  in 
the  common  course  of  daily  hapjKnings.  For  among  the  letters, 
brought  to  him  along  with  his  first  breakfast  yesterday  after  that 
night  of  secret  licence,  had  been  three  of  serious  import.  One 
was  from  Lady  Calmady  ;  and  that  he  put  aside  with  a  certain 
anger,  calling  himself  unwilling,  knowing  himself  unfit,  to  read  it. 
Another  he  tore  open.  The  handwriting  was  unknown  to  him. 
He  began  reading  it  in  bewilderment.     Then  he  understood. 


464  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Monsieur," — it  ran, — "  You  are  in  process  of  exterminating 
me.     But,  since  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  no  sufificient  oppor- 
tunity has  been  afforded  you  of  realising  the  enormity  of  your 
conduct,  I  rally  the  profoundness  of  nobility  which  I  discover 
within  me  —  I  calm  myself.      I  go  further,  I  explain.      Living 
in  retirement,  you  may  not  have  learned  that  I  am  in  Naples.     I 
followed  your  cousin  here — Madame  de  Vallorbes.     My  connec- 
tion with  her  represents  the  supreme  passion  of  my  passionate 
youth.     At  once  a  frenzy  and  an  anodyne,  I  have  found  in  it  the 
inspiration  of  my  genius  in  its  later  development.     This  work 
must  not  be  put  a  stop  to.     It  is  too  majestic,  it  is  weighted  with 
too  serious  consequences  to  the  whole  of  thinking  France,  of 
thinking  Europe.     A  less  experienced  woman  cannot  satisfy  the 
extravagance  of  my  desires,  the  demands  of  my  all-consuming 
imagination.     The  reverence  with  which  a  person,  such  as  your- 
self, must  regard  commanding  talent,  the  concessions  he  must  be 
willing   to  make  to  its  necessities,  are  without   limit.     This   I 
cannot  doubt  that  you  will   admit.     The   corollary  is  obvious. 
Either,  monsieur,  you  will  immediately  invite  me  to  reside  with 
you  at  your  villa — thereby  securing  for  yourself  daily  intercourse 
with  a  nature  of  distinguished  merit — or  you  will  restore  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  to  me  without  hesitation  or  delay.     Her  devotion 
to  me  is  absolute.     How  could  it  fail  to  be  so,  since  I  have 
lavished  upon  her  the  treasures  of  my  extraordinary  personality  ? 
But  a  fear  of  insular  prejudice  on  your  part  withholds  her  at  this 
moment  from  full  expression  of  that  devotion.     She  suffers  as 
well  as  myself.     It  will  be  your  privilege  to  put  a  term  to  this 
suffering  by  requesting  me  to  join  her,  or  by  restoring  her  to  me. 
To  do  otherwise  will  be  to  prolong  the  eclipse  of  my  genius, 
and  thereby  outrage  the  conscience  of  civilised  humanity  which 
breathlessly  awaits  the  next  utterance  of  its  chosen  poet.     If  you 
require  the  consolation  of  feminine  society,  marry — it  would  be 
very   simple  —  some   white-souled,  English   miss.      But  restore 
to  me,  to  whom  her  presence  is  indispensable,  this  woman  of 
regal  passions.     I  shall  present  myself  at  your  house  to-day  to 
receive  your  answer  in  person.      The   result   of  a  refusal,  on 
your  part,  to  receive  me  will  be  attended  by  calamitous  conse- 
quences  to  yourself. — Accept,  ffiojisteur,  the  expression   of  my 
highest  consideration, 

Paul  Auguste  Destournelle." 

For  the  moment  Richard  saw  red,  mad  with  rage  at  the 
insolence  of  the  writer.  And  then  came  the  question,  was  it  true, 
that  which  this  letter  implied  ?     Had  Helen,  indeed,  lied  to  him  ? 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  465 

And,  not\vithstanding  its  insane  vanity,  did  this  precious  epistle 
give  a  more  veracious  account  of  her  relation  to  the  young  poet 
than  that  which  she  had  herself  volunteered  ?  He  tried  to  put 
the  thought  from  him.  Who  was  he — to-day  of  all  days — to  be 
nice  about  the  conduct  of  another?  Who  was  he  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment ?  So  he  turned  to  his  correspondence  again,  taking  another 
letter,  at  random,  from  the  pile.  And  then,  looking  at  the  super- 
scription, he  turned  somewhat  sick. 


(( 


MoN   CHER,"  —  wrote    M.   de   Vallorbes, —  "  My    steward 
informs  me  that  he  has  just  received  your  draft  for  a  quarter's 
rent   of  the   villa.     I   thank   you   a   thousand   times   for   your 
admirable  punctuality.    Decidedly  you  are  of  those  with  whom  it 
is  a  consolation  to  do  business.     Need  I  assure  you  that  the 
advent  of  this  money  is  far  from  inopportune,  since  a  grateful 
country,  while  showering  distinctions  upon  me  with  one  hand, 
with  the  other  picks  my  pocket?     I  find  it  not  a  little  expen- 
sive this  famous  military  service  !     But  then,  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  I  have  found  all  that  afforded  me  the  slightest  active 
pleasure  equally  that !     And  this  sport  of  war,  I  promise  you,  is 
the  most  excellent  sport  in  which  I  have  as  yet  participated.     It 
satisfies  the  primitive  instincts  more  thoroughly  than  even  your 
English    fox-hunting.     A   battue  of    Comfnufiards   is   obviously 
superior  to  a  battue  of  pheasants.    To  the  dignity  of  killing  one's 
fellow-men  is  added  the  satisfaction  of  ridding  oneself  of  vermin. 
It  becomes  a  matter  of  sanitation  and  self-respect.     And   this, 
indirectly,  recalls  to  me,  that  report  declares  my  wife  to  be  with 
you  at  Naples.     Mon  cher  je  vous  e?i  fais  cadeau.     W^ith  you,  at 
least,  I  know  that  my  honour  is  safe.     You  may  e.en  instil  into 
her  mind  some  faint  conception  of  the  rudiments  of  morality. 
To  be  frank  with  you,  she  needs  that.     A  couple  of  months  ago 
she  did  me  the  honour  to  elope — temporarily,  of  course — with 
M.  Paul  Destournelle.     You  may  have  glanced,  one  day,  at  his 
cra{)ulous  verses.     I  suppose  honour   demanded  that  I  should 
pursue  the  guilty  pair  and  account  for  one,  if  not  both,  of  them. 
But  I  was  too  busily  engaged  with  my  little  Communards,     We 
set  these  gentry  up  against  a  wall  and  dispose  of  them  in  batches. 
I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  this,  but,  as  I  say,  it  has  not  yet 
become    monotonous.      Traits  of  individual    character   lend    it 
vivacity.    And  then,  putting  aside  the  exigencies  of  my  profession, 
I  do  not  know  that  anything  is  to  be  gained  by  inviting  public 
scandal.     You  have  an  English  proverb  to  the  effect  that  one 
should  wash  one's  dirty  linen  at  home.     This  I  have  tried  to  do, 
as   you  cannot  but  be  aware,  all   along.     If  one  has  had   the 

30 


466  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

misfortune  to  marry  Messalina,  one  learns  to  be  philosophic.  A 
few  lovers  more  or  less,  in  that  connection,  what,  after  all,  does  it 
matter?  Indeed,  I  begin  to  derive  ironical  consolation  from  the 
fact  of  their  multiplicity.  The  existence  of  one  would  have 
constituted  a  reflection  upon  my  charms.  But  a  matter  of  ten, 
fifteen,  twenty,  ceases  to  be  in  any  degree  personal  to  myself. 
Only  I  object  to  Destournelle.  He  is  too  young,  too  rococco. 
He  represents  a  descent  in  the  scale.  I  prefer  des  hommes 
mures,  generals,  ministers,  princes.  The  devil  knows  we  have 
had  our  share  of  such  !  Your  generosity  to  her  has  saved  us  from 
Jews  so  far,  and  from  nouveaux  riches,  by  relieving  the  business 
of  commercial  aspects.  Give  her  some  salutary  advice,  therefore, 
mo7i  cher,  and  if  she  becomes  inconvenient  forward  her  to  Paris. 
I  forgive  to  seventy-times-seven,  being  still  proud  enough  to 
struggle  after  an  appearance  of  social  and  conjugal  decency. 
Enfin  it  is  a  relief  to  have  unburdened  myself  for  once,  and  you 
have  been  the  good  genius  of  my  unfortunate  menage,  for  which 
Heaven  reward  you. — Yours,  in  true  cousinly  regard  and  supreme 
reliance  on  your  discretion, 

Angelo  LuiGi  Francesco  de  Vallorbes." 

That  this,  in  any  case,  had  a  stamp  of  sincerity  upon  it, 
Richard  could  not  doubt.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  had 
long  ceased  to  accept  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  estimate  of  her 
husband  with  unqualified  belief.  But,  be  that  as  it  might, 
whether  he  were  a  consummate,  or  merely  an  average  profligate, 
one  thing  was  certain  that  this  man  trusted  him — Richard 
Calmady, — and  that  he — Richard  Calmady — had  very  vilely 
betrayed  that  trust.  He  stared  at  the  letter,  and  certain 
sentences  in  it  seemed  to  sear  him,  even  as  the  branding-iron 
used  on  a  felon  might.  This  was  a  new  shame,  different  to,  and 
greater  than,  any  his  deformity  had  ever  induced  in  him,  even  as 
evil  done  is  different  to,  and  greater  than,  evil  suffered.  Morality 
may  be  relative  only  and  conventional.  Honour,  for  all 
persons  of  a  certain  standing  and  breeding,  remains  absolute. 
And  it  was  precisely  of  his  own  honour  that  he  had  deprived 
himself.  Not  only  in  body,  but  in  character,  he  was  henceforth 
monstrous.  For  a  while  Richard  had  remained  very  still, 
looking  at  this  thing  into  which  he  had  made  himself  as  though 
it  were  external  and  physically  visible  to  him. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  had  reached  out  his  hand  for  his 
mother's  letter.  A  decision  of  great  moment  was  impending. 
He  would  know  what  she  had  to  say  before  finally  making  that 
decision.       He   wondered    bitterly,  grimly,  whether   her   words 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  467 

■would  plunge   him  yet  deeper  in  this  abyss  of  self-hatred  and 
self-contempt. 

"  My  Darling," — she  wrote, — ''  I  am  foolishly  glad  to  learn 
that  you  are  back  at  Naples.  It  gives  me  comfort  to  know  you 
are  even  thus  much  nearer  home  and  in  a  country  where  I  too 
have  travelled  and  of  which  I  retain  many  dear  and  delightful 
recollections.  You  may  be  surprised,  perhaps,  to  see  the 
unaccustomed  address  upon  my  notepaper  and  may  wonder 
what  has  made  me  guilty  of  deserting  my  post.  Now,  since  the 
worst  of  it  is  certainly  over,  I  may  tell  you  that  my  health  has 
failed  a  good  deal  of  late.  Nothing  of  a  really  serious  nature — 
you  need  not  be  alarmed  about  me.  But  I  had  got  into  a  rather 
weak  and  unworthy  state,  from  which  it  became  very  desirable  I 
should  rouse  myself.  Selfishness  is  insidious,  and  none  the  less 
reprehensible  because  it  takes  the  apparently  innocent  form  of 
sitting  in  a  chair  with  one's  eyes  shut !  However  that  best  of 
men,  John  Knott,  brought  very  bracing  influences  to  bear  on 
nie,  convincing  me  of  sin — in  the  gentlest  way  in  the  world — by 
means  of  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  And  so  I  picked  myself  up, 
dear  Dickie, — picked  the  whole  of  myself  up,  as  I  hope,  always 
saving  and  excepting  my  self-indulgent  inertia, — and  came  away 
here  to  Ormiston.  At  first,  I  confess,  I  felt  very  much  like  a 
dog  at  a  fair,  or  the  proverbial  mummy  at  a  feast.  But  they  all 
bore  with  me  in  the  plenty  of  their  kindness ;  and,  in  the  last 
week,  I  have  banished  the  mummy  and  trained  the  scared  dog 
to  altogether  polite  and  pretty  behaviour.  Till  I  came  back  to  it, 
I  hardly  realised  how  truly  I  loved  this  place.  How  should  it 
be  otherwise?  I  met  your  father  first  here  after  his  third  term 
at  Eton.  I  remember  he  snubbed  me  roundly.  I  met  him 
again  the  year  before  our  marriage.  Without  vanity  I  declare 
that  then  he  snubbed  me  not  one  little  bit.  These  things  are 
very  far  away.  But  to  me,  though  far  away,  they  are  very  vivid 
and  very  lovely.  I  see  them  as  you,  when  you  were  small,  so 
often  pleaded  to  see  a  fairy  landscape  by  looking  through  the 
large  end  of  the  gold  and  torloiseshell  spy-glass  ufjon  my  writing- 
table.  All  of  which  may  seem  to  you  somewhat  childish  and 
trivial,  but  I  grow  an  old  woman  and  have  a  fancy  for  toys  and 
tender  make-believes — such  as  fairy  landscapes  seen  through  the 
big  end  of  a  spy-glass.  'J'he  actual  landscape,  at  times,  is  a 
trifle  discouragingly  rain-blotted  and  cloudy! — Roger  and  Mary 
are  here.  Their  two  boys  are  just  gone  back  to  school  again. 
They  are  fine,  courteous,  fearless,  little  fellows.  Roger  makes  a 
rather  superb  middle-aged  man.     He  has  much  of  my  father — 


468  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

your  grandfather's  reticence  and  dignity.  Indeed,  he  might 
prove  slightly  alarming,  was  one  not  so  perfectly  sure  of  him, 
dear  creature.  Mary  remains,  as  of  old,  the  most  wholesome 
and  helpful  of  women.  Yes,  it  is  good  to  dwell,  for  a  time, 
among  one's  own  people.  And  I  cannot  but  rejoice  that  my 
eldest  brother  has  come  to  an  arrangement  by  which,  at  his 
death,  your  uncle  William  will  receive  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  in  lieu  of  the  property.  This  last  will  go  direct  to  Roger, 
and  eventually  to  his  boys.  If  your  uncle  William  had  a  son, 
the  whole  matter  would  be  different.  But  I  own  it  would  hurt 
me  that  in  the  event  of  his  death  there  should  be  no  Ormiston  at 
Ormiston  after  these  many  generations.  In  all  probability  the 
place  would  be  sold  immediately,  for  it  is  an  open  secret  that, 
through  no  fault  of  his  own,  poor  man,  William  is  sadly  em- 
barrassed in  money  matters.  And  he  has  other  sorrows — of  a 
rather  terrible  nature,  since  they  are  touched  with  disgrace.  But 
here  you  will  probably  detect  a  point  of  prejudice,  so  I  had 
best  stop  ! — I  look  out  upon  a  grey,  northern  sea,  where  '  the 
white  horses  fume  and  fret '  under  a  cold,  grey,  northern  sky. 
The  oaks  in  the  park  are  just  thickening  with  yellow-green  buds. 
And  there,  close  to  my  window,  perched  on  a  topmost  twig,  a 
missel-thrush  is  singing,  facing  the  wind  like  a  gentleman.  You 
look  out  upon  a  purple  sea,  I  suppose,  beneath  clear  skies  and 
over  orange  trees  and  palms.  I  wonder  if  any  brave  bird  pipes 
to  you  as  my  storm-cock  to  me  ?  It  brings  up  one's  courage  to 
hear  his  song,  so  strong  and  wild  and  sweet,  in  the  very  teeth  of 
the  gale  too  !  But  now  you  will  have  had  enough  of  my  news  and 
more  than  enough.  I  write  to  you  more  freely,  you  see,  than 
for  a  long  time  past,  being  myself  more  free  of  spirit.  And 
therefore  I  dare  add  this,  in  all  and  every  case,  my  darling,  God 
keep  you.  And  remember,  should  you  weary  of  wandering,  that 
not  only  the  doors  of  Brockhurst,  but  the  doors  of  my  heart,  stand 
forever  wide  open  to  welcome  you  home. — Yours  always, 

K.  C." 

Reading  which  gentle,  yet  in  a  sense  daring,  words,  Richard's 
shame  took  on  another  complexion,  but  one  by  no  means 
calculated  to  mitigate  the  burning  of  it.  His  treachery  towards 
de  Vallorbes  became  almost  vulgar  and  of  small  moment  beside 
his  cruelty  to  this  superbly  magnanimous  woman,  his  mother. 
For,  all  these  years,  determinately  and  of  set  purpose,  defiant  of 
every  better  impulse,  he  had  hardened  his  heart  against  her. 
To  differ  from  her,  to  cherish  that  which  was  unsympathetic  to 
her,  to  put  aside  every  tradition  in  which  she  had  nurtured  him, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  469 

to  love  that  which  she  condemned,  to  condemn  that  which  she 
loved — and  this,  if  silently,  still  unswervingly — had  been  the 
ruling  purpose  of  his  action.  That  which  had  its  origin  in 
passionate  revolt  against  his  own  unhappy  disfigurement,  had 
come  to  be  an  interest  and  object  in  itself.  In  this  quarrel  with 
her — a  quarrel  intimate,  pre-natal,  anterior  to  consciousness  and 
to  volition — he  found  the  justification  of  his  every  lapse,  his 
every  crookedness  of  conduct  and  of  thought.  Since  he  could 
not  reach  Almighty  God,  and  strike  at  the  eternal  First  Cause 
which  he  held  responsible  for  the  inalienable  wrong  done  to  him, 
he  would  strike,  with  cold-blooded  persistence,  at  the  woman 
whom  Almighty  God  had  permitted  to  be  His  instrument  in 
the  infliction  of  that  wrong.  And  to  where  had  that  sustained 
purpose  of  striking  led  him?  Even — so  he  judged  just  now- — to 
the  dishonour  and  desolation  of  to-day,  following  upon  the 
sacrilegious  licence  of  last  night. 

All  this  Richard  saw  with  the  alternately  groping,  benumbed, 
mental  vision  and  the  glaring,  mental  nakedness  of  breeding 
fever.  Small  wonder  that  looking  for  comfort,  for  promise 
of  restoration,  he  found  none  in  things  material,  in  things 
intellectual,  in  others,  or  in  himself!  He  felt  outcasted  beyond 
hope  of  redemption  ;  but  not  repentant,  hardly  remorseful  even, 
only  aware  of  all  that  which  had  happened,  and  of  his  own 
state.  For  Lady  Calmady's  letter  was  to  him  little  more,  as 
yet,  than  a  placing  of  fart'^.  To  trade  upon  her  magnificent 
generosity  of  affection,  and  seek  refuge  in  those  outstretched 
arms  now,  with  the  mark  of  the  branding-iron  so  sensibly  upon 
him,  appeared  to  him  of  all  contemptible  doings  the  most 
radically  contemptible.  Obviously  it  was  impossible  to  go 
back.  He  must  go  on  rather  —  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind. 
Fantastic  schemes  of  disappearing,  of  losing  himself,  far  away 
in  remote  and  nameless  places,  among  the  coral  islands  of  the 
Pacific  or  the  chill  majesty  of  the  Antarctic  seas,  offered 
themselves  to  his  imagination.  The  practical  difficulties  pre- 
sented by  such  schemes,  their  infeasibility,  did  not  trouble  him. 
He  would  sever  all  connection  with  that  which  had  been,  with 
that  which  had  made  for  good  efjually  with  that  which  had  made 
for  evil.  By  his  own  voluntary  act  and  choice  he  wcjuld  become 
as  a  man  dead,  the  disgrace  of  his  malformed  body,  the  closer 
and  more  hideous  disgrace  of  his  defiled  and  prostituted  soul, 
surviving  in  legend  merely,  as  might  some  ugly,  old-time  fable 
useful  for  the  frightening  of  unruly  I)al)es. 

And  to  that  end  of  self  obliteration  he  instantly  applied  him- 
self, with  outward  calm,  but  with  the  mental  hurry  and  restless- 


470  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ness  of  increasing  illness.  His  first  duty  was  to  end  the  whole 
matter  of  his  relation  to  Helen, — Helen  shorn  of  her  divinity, 
convicted  liar  and  wanton,  yet  mistress  still  for  him,  as  he 
feared,  of  mighty  enchantments.  So  he  wrote  to  her  very 
briefly.  The  note  should  be  given  her  later  in  the  day.  In  it 
he  stated  that  he  should  have  left  the  villa  before  this  announce- 
ment reached  her,  left  it  finally  and  without  remotest  prospect  of 
return,  since  he  could  not  doubt  that  she  recognised,  as  he  did, 
how  impossible  it  had  become  that  he  and  she  should  meet 
again.  He  added  that  he  would  communicate  with  her  shortly 
as  to  business  arrangements.  That  done,  he  summoned  Powell, 
his  valet,  bidding  him  pack.  He  would  go  down  to  the  yacht  at 
once.  He  had  received  information  which  made  it  imperative 
he  should  quit  Naples  immediately. 

To  be  out  of  all  this,  rid  of  it,  fairly  started  on  the  road  of 
negation  of  social  being,  negation  of  recognised  existence,  in- 
fected him  like  a  madness.  But  even  the  most  forceful  human 
will  must  bend  to  stupidities  of  detail  and  of  material  fact. 
Unexpected  delays  had  occurred.  The  yacht  was  not  ready 
for  sea,  neither  coaled,  nor  provisioned,  nor  sound  of  certain 
small  damages  to  her  machinery.  Vanstone,  the  captain,  might 
mislay  his  temper,  and  the  first  mate  expend  himself  in  poly- 
syllabic invective,  young  Penberthy  cease  to  dream,  stewards, 
engineers,  carpenters,  cooks,  quartermasters,  seamen,  firemen, 
do  their  most  willing  and  urgent  best,  nevertheless  the  morning 
of  next  day,  and  even  the  afternoon  of  it,  still  found  Richard 
Calmady  seated  at  the  locker-table  of  the  white-walled  deck- 
cabin,  his  voyage  towards  self-obliteration  not  yet  begun. 

Charts  were  out-spread  before  him,  upon  which,  at  weary 
intervals,  he  essayed  to  trace  the  course  of  his  coming  wander- 
ings. But  his  brain  was  dull,  he  had  no  power  of  consecutive 
thought.  That  same  madness  of  going  was  upon  him  with  un- 
diminished power,  yet  he  knew  not  where  he  wanted  to  go, 
hardly  why  he  wanted  to  go,  only  that  a  blind  obsession  of 
going  drove  him.  He  was  miserably  troubled  about  other 
matters  too — about  that  same  brief  letter  he  had  written  to 
Helen  before  leaving  the  villa.  He  was  convinced  that  he  had 
written  such  a  letter ;  but  struggle  as  he  might  to  remember  the 
contents  of  it  they  remsftned  to  him  a  blank.  He  was  haunted 
by  the  fear  that  in  that  letter  he  had  committed  some  irremedi- 
able folly,  had  bound  himself  to  some  absurdly  unworthy  course 
of  action.  But  what  it  might  be  escaped  and,  in  escaping, 
tortured  him.  And  then,  this  surely  was  Friday,  and  Morabita 
sang  at  the  San  Carlo  to-night  ?     And  surely  he  had  promised  to 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  471 

be  there,  and  to  meet  the  famous  prima  do?ma  and  sup  with  her 
after  the  performance,  as  in  former  days  at  Vienna  ?  He  had 
not  always  been  quite  kind  to  her,  poor,  dear,  fat,  good-natured, 
silly  soul !  He  could  not  fail  her  now. — And  then  he  went  back 
to  a  chart  of  the  South  Pacific  again.  Only  he  could  not  see  it 
plainly,  but  saw,  instead  of  it,  the  great  folio  of  copper-plate 
engravings  lying  on  the  broad  window-seat  of  the  eastern  bay  of 
the  Long  Gallery  at  home.  He  was  sitting  there  to  watch  for 
the  racehorses  coming  back  from  exercise,  Tom  Chifney  prick- 
ing along  beside  them  on  his  handsome  cob.  And  the  long-ago, 
boyish  desperation  of  longing  for  wholeness,  for  freedom,  brought 
a  moistness  to  his  eyes,  and  a  lump  into  his  throat.  And  all  the 
while  the  coal  dust  drifted  in  at  each  smallest  crevice  and 
aperture ;  and  the  air  was  vibrant  with  rasping,  jarring  uproar 
and  nauseous  with  the  stale,  heavy  odours  of  the  city  and  the 
port  And  steadily,  ceaselessly,  the  descending  rain  drummed 
upon  the  roofing  overhead. 

At  length  a  stupor  took  him.  His  head  sank  upon  his  arms, 
folded  upon  those  outspread  charts,  while  the  noise  of  all  the 
rude  activities  surrounding  him  subtly  transformed  itself  into 
that  of  a  great  orchestra.  And  above  this,  superior  to,  yet 
nobly  supported  by  it,  Morabita's  voice  rose  in  the  suave  and 
passionate  phrases  of  the  glorious  cavatina — ^^  Ernani,  Ernani, 
involafni,  alVabborito  ampleso." — Yes,  her  voice  was  as  good  as 
ever !  Richard  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Here,  at  least, 
was  something  true  to  itself;  and  amid  so  much  of  change,  so 
much  of  spoiling,  still  unspoilt ! — He  raised  his  head  and 
listened.  For  something  must  have  happened,  something  of 
serious  moment.  The  orchestra,  for  some  unaccountable 
reason,  had  suddenly  broken  down.  Yes,  it  must  be  the 
orchestra  which  disaster  had  overtaken,  for  a  voice  very 
certainly  continued.  No,  not  a  voice,  but  voices — those  of 
Vanstone  the  captain,  and  Price  the  first  mate,  and  old  Billy 
Jinn  the  boatswain  —  loud,  imperative,  violently  remonstrant; 
but  swept  under  and  swamped  at  moments  by  cries  and  volleys 
of  foulest,  Neapolitan  argot  from  hoarse,  Neapolitan  throats. 
And  that  abrujUly  silenced  orchestra  ?  —  Richard  came  back 
to  himself,  came  back  to  actualities  of  environment  and  prosaic 
fact.  An  infinitely  weariful  despair  seized  him.  For  the  sound 
that  had  reached  so  sudden  a  termination  was  not  that  of 
cunningly-attuned  musical  instruments,  l)ut  the  long-drawn, 
chattering  rush  of  the  coal,  pitched  from  the  baskets  down  the 
echoing,  iron  shoots. 

The  cabin  door  opened  discreetly  and  Powell,  incarnation  of 


472  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

decorous  punctualities  even  amid  existing  tumultuously  discom- 
posing circumstances,  entered. 

"  From  the  villa,  sir,"  he  said,  depositing  letters  and  newspapers 
upon  the  table, 

Richard  put  out  his  hand,  turned  them  over  mechanically. 
For  again,  somehow,  and  notwithstanding  the  babel  without,  that 
exquisite  invitation — '■'■  Ernaiii,  Er?iafu,  involafni" — assailed  his 
ears. 

The  valet  waited  a  little,  quiet  and  deferential  in  bearing,  yet 
observing  his  master  with  a  certain  keenness  and  anxiety. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Bates,  as  you  desired,  sir,"  he  said  at  last. 

Richard  looked  up  at  him  vaguely.  And  it  struck  him  that 
while  Powell  was  on  shore  to-day  he  had  undoubtedly  had  his 
hair  cut.  This  interested  him — though  why,  he  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  say. 

"  Mr.  Bates  thought  you  should  be  informed  that  a  gentleman 
called  early  yesterday  afternoon,  as  he  said  by  appointment." 

Yes — certainly  Powell  had  had  his  hair  cut. — "  Did  the 
gentleman  give  his  name  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  M.  Paul  Destournelle." 

Powell  spoke  slowly,  getting  his  tongue  carefully  round 
the  foreign  syllables,  and,  for  all  the  confusion  of  his  hearer's 
mind,  the  name  went  home.  Vagueness  passed  from  Richard's 
glance. 

"  He  was  refused,  of  course." 

"  Her  ladyship  had  given  orders  that  should  any  person  of 
that  name  call  he  was  to  be  admitted." — Powell  spoke  with 
evident  reluctance.  "  Consequently  Mr.  Bates  was  uncertain 
how  to  act,  having  received  contrary  orders  from  you,  sir,  the 
day  before  yesterday.  He  explained  this  to  her  ladyship,  but 
she  insisted." 

Richard's  mind  had  become  perfectly  lucid. 

'*  Very  well,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Mr.  Bates  also  thought  you  should  know,  sir,  that  after 
M.  Destournelle's  visit  her  ladyship  announced  she  should  not 
remain  at  the  villa.  She  left  about  five  o'clock,  taking  her  maid. 
Charles  followed  with  all  the  baggage." 

The  valet  paused.  Richard's  manner  was  decidedly  dis- 
couraging, yet,  something  further  must  at  least  be  intimated. 

"Her  ladyship  gave  no  address  to  Mr.  Bates  for  the 
forwarding  of  her  letters." 

But  here  the  cabin  door,  left  slightly  ajar  by  Powell,  was 
opened  wide,  and  that  with  none  of  the  calm  and  discretion 
displayed  by  the  functionary  in  question.     A  long  perspective  of 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  473 

grimy  deck  behind  him,  his  oilskins  shiny  from  the  wet,  with 
trim  black  beard,  square-made,  bold-eyed,  hot-tempered,  warm- 
hearted, alert,  humorous — typical  West  Countryman  as  his  gentle 
dreamy  cousin,  Penberthy,  the  second  mate,  though  of  a  very 
different  type  —  stood  Captain  Vanstone.  His  easily-ruffled 
temper  suffered  from  the  after  effects  of  what  is  commonly 
known  as  a  ''jolly  row,"  and  his  speech  was  curt  in  consequence 
thereof. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you.  Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "and  still  more 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Dickie  turned  upon  him  so  strangely  drawn  and  haggard  a 
countenance,  that  Vanstone  with  difficulty  repressed  an  exclama- 
tion. He  looked  in  quick  inquiry  at  the  valet,  who  so  far 
departed  from  his  usual  decorum  as  to  nod  his  head  in  assent 
to  the  silent  questioning. 

"  What's  wrong  now  ?  "  Richard  said. 

"  Why,  these  beggarly  rascals  have  knocked  off.  Price  offered 
them  a  higher  scale  of  pay.  I  had  empowered  him  to  do  so. 
But  they  won't  budge.  The  rain's  washed  the  heart  out  of  them. 
We've  tried  persuasion  and  we've  tried  threats — it's  no  earthly 
use.  Not  a  basket  more  coal  will  they  put  on  board  before 
five  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Can't  we  sail  with  what  we  have  got  ?  " 

"  Not  enough  to  carry  us  to  Port  Said." 

"What  will  be  the  extent  of  the  delay  this  time?"  Richard 
asked.     His  tone  had  an  edge  to  it. 

Again  Captain  Vanstone  glanced  at  the  valet. 

"  With  luck  wc  may  get  off  to-morrow  about  midnight." 

He  stepped  back,  shook  himself  like  a  big  dog,  scattering  the 
water  off  his  oilskins  in  a  shower  upon  the  slippery  deck. 
Then  he  came  inside  the  cabin  and  stood  near  Richard.  His 
expression  was  very  kindly,  tender  almost. 

"  You  must  excu.se  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  know  it  doesn't 
come  within  my  province  to  give  you  advice.  But  you  do  look 
pretty  ill,  Sir  Richard.  Everyone's  remarking  that.  And  you 
are  ill,  sir — you  know  it,  and  I  know  it,  and  Mr.  Powell  here  knows 
it.  You  ought  to  see  a  doctor,  sir — and  if  you'll  pardon  plain 
language,  this  beastly  cess-pit  of  a  harbour  is  no  fit  place  for  you 
to  sleep  in." 

And  pfior  Dickie,  after  an  instant  of  sharp  annoyance,  touched 
by  the  man's  honest  humanity  smiled  upon  him — a  smile  of  utter 
weariness,  utter  hopelessness. 

"  Perfectly  true.  Ck.t  me  out  to  sea  then,  Vanstone.  I  shall 
be  better  there  than  anywhere  else,"  he  said. 


474  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Whereupon  the  kindly  sailor-man  turned  away  swearing 
gently  into  his  trim,  black  beard. 

But  the  valet  remained,  impassive  in  manner,  actively  anxious 
at  heart. 

"  Have  you  any  orders  for  the  carriage,  sir  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Garcia  drove  me  down.  I  told  him  to  wait  until  I  had 
inquired." 

Richard  was  long  in  replying.  His  brain  was  all  confused 
and  clouded  again,  while  again  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  famous 
soprano — "  Ernani,  Ernani,  involamiP 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Tell  Gargia  to  be  here  in  good 
time  to  drive  me  to  the  San  Carlo.  I  have  an  appointment  at 
the  opera  to-night." 

CHAPTER  XI 

IX    WHICH    DICKIE    GOES    TO    THE    END    OK    THE    WORLD    AND 
LOOKS    OVER    THE    WALL 

THE  opera  box,  which  Richard  Calmady  had  rented  along 
with  the  Villa  Vallorbes,  was  fifth  from  the  stage  on  the 
third  tier,  to  the  right  of  the  vast  horse-shoe.  Thus  situated,  it 
commanded  a  very  comprehensive  view  of  the  interior  of  the 
house.  T^he  parterre — its  somewhat  comfortless  seats  rising,  as 
on  iron  stilts,  as  they  recede,  row  by  row,  from  the  proscenium — 
was  packed.  AVhile,  since  the  aristocratic  world  had  not  yet  left 
town,  the  boxes — piled,  tier  above  tier,  without  break  of  dress- 
circle  or  gallery,  right  up  to  the  lofty  roof — were  well  filled.  And 
it  was  the  effect  of  these  last  that  affected  Richard  oddly, 
displeasingly,  as,  helped  by  Powell  and  Andrews,  the  first  foot- 
man— who  acted  as  his  table-steward  on  board  the  Reprieve, — 
he  made  his  way  slowly  down  to  the  chair,  placed  on  the  left,  at 
the  front  of  the  box.  For  the  accepted  aspects  and  relations  of 
things  seen  were  remote  to  him.  He  perceived  effects,  shapes, 
associations  of  colour,  divorced  from  their  habitual  significance. 
It  was  as  though  he  looked  at  the  written  characters  of  a  language 
unknown  to  him,  observing  the  form  of  them,  but  attaching  no 
intelligible  meaning  to  that  form.  And  so  it  happened  that 
those  many  superimposed  tiers  of  boxes  were  to  him  as  the 
waxen  cells  of  a  gigantic  honeycomb,  against  the  angular 
darknesses  of  which  little  figures,  seen  to  the  waist,  took  the 
light — the  blond  face,  neck  and  arms  of  some  woman,  the  fair 
colours  of  her  dress — and  showed  up  with  perplexing  insistence. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  475 

For  they  were  all  peopled,  these  cells  of  the  honeycomb,  and — 
so  it  seemed  to  him — with  larvae,  bright-hued,  unworking,  indolent, 
full-fed.  Down  there  upon  the  parterre,  in  the  close-packed, 
ranks  of  students,  of  men  and  women  of  the  middle-class,  soberly 
attired  in  walking  costume,  he  recognised  the  working  bees  of 
this  giant  hive.  By  their  unremitting  labour  the  dainty  waxen 
cells  were  actually  built  up,  and  those  larvae  were  so  amply,  so 
luxuriously,  fed.  And  the  working  bees — ^there  were  so  many, 
so  very  many  of  them  !  What  if  they  became  mutinous,  rebelled 
against  labour,  plundered  and  destroyed  the  indolent,  succulent 
larvce  of  which  he — yes,  he,  Richard  Calmady — was  unquestion- 
ably and  conspicuously  one? 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  pulled  forward  the  velvet 
drapery  so  as  to  shut  out  the  view  of  the  house,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  the  heads  of  the  musicians  in  the  orchestra.  The 
overture  was  nearly  over.  The  curtain  would  very  soon  go  up. 
Then  he  observed  that  Powell  still  stood  near  him.  The  man 
was  strangely  officious  to-day,  he  thought.  Could  that  be 
connected  in  any  way  with  the  fact  he  had  had  his  hair  cut? 
For  a  moment  the  notion  appeared  to  Dickie  quite  extrava- 
gantly amusing.  But  he  kept  his  amusement,  as  so  much  else, 
to  himself.  And  again  the  working  bees,  down  in  the  parterre, 
attracted  his  attention.  They  were  buzzing,  buzzing  angrily,  dis- 
pleased with  the  full-fed  larvre  in  the  boxes,  because  these  last 
were  altogether  too  social,  talked  too  loud  and  too  continuously, 
drowning  the  softer  passages  of  the  overture.  Those  dull-coloured 
insects  had  expended  store  of  hard-earned  lire  upon  the  cjueer  seats 
they  occupied,  mounted  as  upon  iron  stilts.  They  meant  to  have 
the  whole  of  that  which  they  had  paid  for,  and  hear  every  note. 
If  they  swarmed,  now,  swarmed  upward,  clung  along  the  edges  of 
those  many  tiers  of  boxes,  punished  inconsiderate  insolence  with 
stings? — It  would  hardly  be  unjust. — But  there  was  Powell  still, 
clad  in  sober  garments.  He  belonged  to  the  working  bees. 
And  Richard  became  aware  of  a  singular  diffidence  and 
embarrassment  in  thinking  of  that.  If  they  should  swarm, 
those  workers,  he  would  rather  the  valet  did  not  see  it,  somehow. 
He  was  a  good  fellow,  a  faithful  servant,  a  man  of  nice  feeling, 
and  such  an  incident  would  place  him  in  an  awkward  position. 
He  ought  to  be  spared  that.  Carefully  Dickie  reasoned  it  all 
out. 

"  Vou  need  not  stay  here  any  longer,  Powell,"  he  said. 

"When  shall  I  return,  sir?" 

The  curtain  w(;nt  up.     A  roll  of  drums,  a  chorus  of  men's- 
voices,  somewhat  truculent,  in  the  drinking  song. 


476  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAUY 

"  At  the  end  of  the  performance,  of  course." 

But  the  valet  hesitated. 

"  You  might  require  to  send  some  message,  sir." 

Richard  stared  at  the  chorus.  The  opera  being  performed 
but  this  once,  economy  prevailed.  Costumiers  had  ransacked 
their  stock  for  discovery  of  garments  not  unpardonably  inap- 
propriate. The  result  showed  a  fine  superiority  to  details  of 
time  and  place.  One  Spanish  bandit,  a  portly  basso,  figured  in 
a  surprising  variety  of  Highland  dress  designed,  and  that  locally, 
for  a  chieftain  in  the  opera  of  Liicia  di  Lammermoor.  His 
acquaintance  with  the  eccentricities  of  a  kilt  being  of  the 
slightest,  consequences  ensued  broadly  humorous.  —  Again 
Dickie  experienced  great  amusement.  But  that  message? — 
Had  he  really  one  to  send?  Probably  he  had.  He  could 
not  remember,  and  this  annoyed  him.  Possibly  he  might 
remember  later.  He  turned  to  Powell,  forgetting  his  amuse- 
ment, forgetting  the  too  intimate  personal  revelations  of  the 
unhappy  basso. 

"  Yes — well — come  back  at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  then," 
he  said. 

If  the  bees  swarmed  it  would  be  over  by  that  time,  he 
supposed,  so  Powell's  return  would  not  matter  much  one  way  or 
the  other.  A  persuasion  of  something  momentous  about  to  be 
accomplished  deepened  in  him.  The  madness  of  going,  which 
had  so  pushed  him  earlier  in  the  day,  fell  dead  before  it.  For 
this  concourse  of  living  creatures  must  be  gathered  together  to 
witness  some  event  commensurate  in  importance  with  the  greatness 
of  their  number.  He  felt  sure  of  that.  Yes — before  long  they 
would  swarm.  Incontestably  they  would  swarm  ! — Again  he  drew 
aside  the  velvet  drapery  and  looked  down  curiously  upon  the 
arena  and  its  occupants.  For  a  new  idea  had  come  to  him  re- 
garding these  last.  They  still  presented  the  effect  of  a  throng  of 
busy,  angry  insects.  But  Richard  knew  better.  He  had  penetrated 
their  disguise,  a  disguise  assumed  to  ensure  their  ultimate  purpose 
with  the  greater  certainty.  He  knew  them  to  be  human.  He 
knew  their  purpose  to  be  a  moral  one.  And,  looking  upon  them, 
recognising  the  spirit  which  animated  them,  he  was  taken  with  a 
reverence  and  sympathy  for  average,  toiling  humanity  unfelt  by 
him  before.  For  he  saw  that  by  these,  the  workers,  the  final  issues 
are  inevitably  decided,  by  these  the  final  verdict  is  pronounced. 
Individually  they  may  be  contemptible;  but  in  their  corporate 
intelligence,  corporate  strength,  they  are  little  short  of  majestic. 
Of  art,  letters,  practical  civilisation,  even  religion,  even,  in  a  degree, 
Nature  herself,  they  are  alike  architects  and  judges.     It  must  be 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  477 

so.  It  always  has  been  so,  time  out  of  mind,  in  point  of  fact. 
And  then  he  wondered  why  they  were  so  patient  of  constraint  ? 
Why  had  they  not  risen  long  ago  and  obliterated  the  pretensions 
of  those  arrogant,  indolent  larvce  peopling  the  angular  apertures 
of  the  honey  cells — those  larvae  of  whom,  by  birth  and  wealth, 
sinfulness  and  uselessness,  he  was  himself  so  conspicuous  an 
example  ? 

But  then  clearer  understanding  of  this  whole  strange  matter 
came  to  him. — They,  like  all  else, — mighty  though  they  are  in 
their  corporate  intention,  —  are  obedient  to  fate.  They  can 
only  act  when  the  time  is  ripe.  And  then  he  understood  still 
more  clearly.  Their  purpose  in  congregating  here,  whether  they 
were  conscious  of  it  or  not,  was  retributive.  They  were  present 
to  witness  and  to  accomplish  an  act  of  foreordained  justice. — 
Richard  paused  a  moment,  struggling  with  his  own  thought. 
And  then  he  saw  quite  plainly  that  he  himself  was  the  object  of 
that  act  of  foreordained  justice,  he  himself  was  the  centre  of  that 
dimly-apprehended,  approaching  event.  His  punishment,  his 
deliverance  by  means  of  that  punishment,  was  that  which  had 
brought  this  great  multitude  together  here  to-night.  He  was  awed. 
Vet  with  that  awe  came  thankfulness,  gratitude,  an  immense  sense 
of  relief.  He  need  not  seek  self-obliteration,  losing  himself  among 
far-away,  tropic  islands,  or  the  ice-bound  regions  of  the  uttermost 
South.  He  could  stay  here.  Sit  (juite  still  even — and  that  was 
well,  for  he  was  horribly  tired  and  spent.  He  need  only  wait. 
When  the  time  was  ripe,  they  would  do  all  the  rest — do  it  for 
him  by  doing  it  to  him. — How  finely  simple  it  all  was  !  In- 
cidentally he  wondered  if  it  would  hurt  very  much.  Not  that 
that  mattered,  for  beyond  lay  peace.  Only  he  hoped  they  would 
get  to  work  pretty  soon,  so  that  it  might  be  over  before  the  end 
of  the  second  act,  when  Powell,  the  valet,  would  come  back. 

Richard's  face  had  grown  very  youthful  and  eager.  His 
eyes  were  unnaturally  bright.  And  still  he  gazed  down  at  that 
great  company.  His  heart  went  out  to  it.  He  loved  it,  loved 
each  and  every  member  of  it,  as  he  had  never  conceived  of 
loving  heretofore.  He  would  like  to  have  gone  down  among 
them  and  become  part  of  them,  one  with  them  in  purpose,  a 
partaker  of  their  corporate  strength.  liut  that  was  forbidden. 
They  were  his  preordained  executioners.  Yet  in  that  capacity 
they  were  not  the  less,  but  the  more,  lovcable.  They  were 
welcome  to  exact  full  justice.  He  longed  after  them,  longed 
after  the  pain  it  was  their  mission  to  inflict. — And  they  were 
getting  ready,  surely  they  were  getting  ready  !  There  was  a 
sensible  movement  among  them.     They  turned  pale  faces  away 


478  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

from  the  brilliantly  lighted  stage,  and  towards  the  great  horse- 
shoe of  waxen  cells  enclosing  them.  They  were  busy,  dull- 
coloured  insects  again,  and  they  buzzed — resentfully,  angrily, 
they  buzzed. 

Yet  even  while  Dickie  noted  all  this,  greatly  moved  by  it, 
appreciating  its  inner  meaning,  its  profound  relation  to  himself 
and  the  drama  of  his  own  existence,  he  was  not  wholly  unmind- 
ful of  the  progress  of  the  opera  and  the  charm  of  the  graceful  and 
fluent  music  which  saluted  his  ears.  He  was  aware  of  the  en- 
trance of  the  hero,  of  his  greeting  by  his  motley-clad  followers. 
He  felt  kindly,  just  off  the  surface  of  his  emotion  so  to  speak, 
towards  this  impersonator  of  Ernani.  The  young  actor's  appear- 
ance was  attractive,  his  voice  fresh  and  sympathetic,  his  bearing 
modest.  But  the  aristocratic  occupants  of  the  boxes  treated  him 
cavalierly.  The  famous  Milanese  tenor,  whose  name  was  on  the 
programme,  having  failed  to  arrive,  this  local,  and  comparatively 
inexperienced,  artist  had  been  called  upon  to  fill  his  part.  There- 
fore the  smart  world  talked  more  loudly  than  before,  while  the 
democratic  occupants  of  the  parterre^  jealous  for  the  reputation 
of  their  fellow-citizen,  broke  forth  into  stormy  protest.  And 
Richard  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  protest  also.  For 
it  was  a  waste  of  energy,  this  senseless  conflict !  It  was  unworthy 
of  the  dignity  of  that  dull-coloured  multitude,  on  whom  his  hopes 
were  so  strangely  set — of  the  men  in  whose  hands  are  the  final 
rewards  and  punishments,  by  whose  voice  the  final  judgment  is 
pronounced.  It  pained  him  to  see  these  ministers  of  the  Eternal 
Justice  thus  led  away  by  trivial  happenings,  and  their  attention 
distracted  from  the  main  issue.  For  what,  in  God's  name,  did 
he  and  his  sentimental  love-caroUings  amount  to,  this  pretty 
fellow  of  a  player,  this  fictitious  hero  of  the  modern,  Neapolitan, 
operatic  stage?  Weighed  in  the  balances,  he  and  his  whole 
occupation  and  calling  were  lighter,  surely,  than  vanity  itself? 
Rightly  considered,  he  and  his  singing  were  but  as  a  spangle,  as 
some  glittering  trifle  of  tinsel,  upon  the  veil  still  hiding  the  awful, 
yet  benign,  countenance  of  that  tremendous  and  so  surely  ap- 
proaching event. — Let  him  sing  away,  then,  sing  in  peace.  For 
the  sound  of  his  singing  might  help  to  lighten  the  weariness  of 
the  hours  until  the  supreme  hour  should  strike,  and  the  glitter- 
ing veil  be  torn  asunder,  and  the  countenance  it  covered  be  at 
last  and  wholly  revealed. 

Reasoning  thus,  Richard  raised  his  opera  glasses  and  swept 
those  many  superimposed  ranges  of  waxen  cells.  And  the  aspect 
of  them  was  to  him  very  sinister,  for  everywhere  he  seemed  to 
•encounter   soft,    voluptuous,    brainless   faces,    violences   of  hot 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  479 

colour,  and  costly  clothing  cunningly  devised  to  heighten  the 
physical  allurements  of  womanhood.  Everywhere,  beside  and 
behind  these,  he  seemed  to  encounter  the  faces  of  men, 
gluttonous  of  pleasure,  hungering  for  those  generously-dis- 
covered, material  charms.  They  were  veritable  ante-chambers 
of  vice,  those  angular-mouthed,  waxen  cells.  And,  therefore,  very 
fittingly,  as  he  reflected,  he  had  his  place  in  one  of  them,  since 
he  was  infected  by  the  vices,  active  partaker  in  the  sensuality,  of 
his  class. — Oh  !  that  the  bees  would  swarm — swarm,  and  make 
short  work  of  it  all,  inflict  fulness  of  punishment,  and  thereby 
cleanse  him  and  set  him  free !  In  its  intensity  his  longing 
came  near  taking  the  form  of  articulate  prayer. 

And  then  his  thought  shifted  once  more,  attaching  itself 
curiously,  speculatively,  to  individual  objects.  For  his  survey 
of  the  house  had  just  now  brought  a  box  into  view  situated  on 
the  grand  tier,  and  almost  immediately  opposite  his  own.  It  was 
occupied  by  a  party  of  six  persons.  With  four  of  those  persons 
Richard  was  aware  he  had  nothing  to  do.  But  with  the  remain- 
ing two  persons — a  woman  fashioned,  as  it  appeared,  of  ivory  and 
gold,  and  a  young  man  standing  almost  directly  behind  her — he 
had  much,  everything,  in  fact,  to  do.  It  was  incomprehensible 
to  him  that  he  had  not  observed  these  two  persons  sooner,  since 
they  were  as  necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  that  terrible,  yet 
beneficent,  approaching  event  as  he  himself  was.  The  woman  he 
knew  actually  and  intimately  ;  though  as  yet  he  could  give  her  no 
name,  nor  recall  in  what  his  knowledge  of  her  consisted.  The 
young  man  he  knew  inferentially.  And  Dickie  was  sensible  of 
regarding  him  with  instinctive  repulsion,  since  his  appearance 
presented  a  living  and  grossly  ribald  caricature  of  a  figure  august, 
worshipful,  and  holy.  Long  and  closely  Richard  studied  those 
two  persons,  studied  them,  forgetful  of  all  else,  straining  his 
memory  to  place  them.     And  all  the  while  they  talked. 

But,  at  last,  the  woman  fashioned  of  ivory  and  gold  ceased 
talking.  She  folded  her  arms  upon  the  velvet  cushion  of  the  front 
of  the  box  and  gazed  right  out  into  the  theatre.  There  was  a 
splendid  arrogance  in  the  pose  of  her  head,  and  in  the  droop  of 
her  eyelids.  Then  she  looked  uj)  and  across,  straight  at  Richard. 
He  saw  her  drooping  eyelids  raised,  her  eyes  open  wide,  and 
remain  fixed  as  in  amazement.  A  something  alert,  and  very 
fierce,  came  into  her  ex|)ression.  She  seemed  to  think  carefully 
for  a  brief  space.  She  threw  back  hrr  head,  and  he  saw  uncon- 
trollable laughter  convulse  her  beautiful  thrcjal.  And,  at  that 
same  moment,  a  mighty  outburst  of  applause  and  of  welcome 
shook  the  great  theatre  from   floor  to  ceiling ;  and,  as  it  died 


48o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

away,  the  voice  of  the  famous  soprano,  rich  and  compelling  as 
of  old,  swelled  out,  and  made  vibrant  with  passionate  sweetness 
the  whole  atmosphere.  And  Richard  hailed  that  glorious  voice, 
not  that  in  itself  it  moved  him  greatly,  but  because  in  it  he 
recognised  the  beginning  of  the  end.  It  came  as  prelude  to 
catastrophe  which  was  also  salvation. — Very  soon  the  bees  would 
swarm  now  !  He  rallied  his  patience.  He  had  not  much  longer 
to  wait. 

Meanwhile  he  looked  back  at  that  box  on  the  grand  tier, 
striving  to  unriddle  the  mystery  of  his  kno>vledge  of  those  two 
persons.  He  needed  glasses  no  longer.  His  sight  had  become 
preternaturally  keen.  Again  the  two  were  talking — and  about 
liim,  that  was  somehow  evident.  And,  as  they  talked,  he  beheld 
a  being,  exquisitely  formed,  perfect  in  every  part,  step  forth  from 
between  the  lips  of  the  woman  fashioned  of  ivory  and  gold.  It 
knelt  upon  one  knee.  Over  the  heads  of  the  vast,  dull-coloured 
multitude  of  workers,  those  witnesses  of  and  participators  in  the 
execution  of  Eternal  Justice,  it  gazed  at  him,  Richard  Calmady, 
and  at  him  alone.  And  its  gaze  enfolded  and  held  him  like 
an  embrace.  It  w'ooed  him,  extending  its  arms  in  invitation. 
It  was  naked  and  unashamed.  It  was  black — black  as  the  reek- 
ing, liquid  lanes  between  the  hulls  of  the  many  ships,  over  which 
the  screaming  gulls  circled  seeking  foul  provender,  down  in 
Naples  harbour. — And  he  knew  the  fair  woman  it  came  forth 
from  for  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  herself,  in  her  crocus-yellow  gown 
sewn  with  seed  pearls.  And  he  knew  it  for  the  immortal  soul 
of  her.  And  he  perceived,  moreover,  as  it  smiled  on  and 
beckoned  him  with  lascivious  gestures,  that  its  hands  and  its 
lips  were  bloody,  since  it  had  broken  the  hearts  of  living  women 
and  torn  and  devoured  the  honour  of  living  men. 

^^  Ertiani^  Ernani,  involami" — still  the  air  was  vibrant  with 
that  glorious  voice.  But  the  love  of  which  it  was  the  exponent, 
the  flight  which  it  counselled,  had  ceased,  to  Richard's  hearing, 
to  bear  relation  to  that  which  is  earthly,  concrete,  and  of  the 
senses.  The  passion  and  promise  of  it  were  alike  turned  to 
nobler  and  more  permanent  uses,  presaging  the  quick  coming  of 
expiation  and  of  reconciliation  contained  in  that  supreme  event. 
For  he  knew  that,  in  a  little  moment,  Helen  must  arise  and 
follow  the  soul  which  had  gone  forth  from  her — the  soul  which, 
in  all  its  admirable  perfection  of  outward  form  and  blackness  of 
intimate  lies  and  lust,  was  close  to  him — though  he  no  longer 
actually  beheld  it — here,  beside  him,  laying  subtle  siege  to  him 
even  yet.  Where  it  went,  there,  of  necessity,  she  who  owned  it 
must  shortly  follow,  since  soul  and  body  cannot  remain  apart. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  481 

save  for  the  briefest  space,  until  death  effect  their  final  divorce. 
Therefore  Helen  would  come  speedily.  It  could  not  be  other- 
■vvise  —  so,  at  least,  he  argued.  And  her  coming  meant  the 
culmination.  Then,  time  being  fully  ripe,  the  bees  would  swarm, 
swarm  at  last, — labour  revenging  itself  upon  sloth,  hunger  upon 
gluttony,  want  upon  wealth,  obscurity  upon  privilege, — justice 
being  thus  meted  out,  and  he,  Richard,  cleansed  and  delivered 
from  the  disgrace  of  deformity  now  so  hideously  infecting  both 
his  spirit  and  his  flesh. 

Of  this  he  was  so  well  assured  that,  disregarding  the  felt, 
though  unseen,  presence  of  that  errant  soul,  disdaining  to  do 
battle  with  it,  he  leaned  forward  once  more,  looking  down  into 
the  close-packed  arena  of  the  great  theatre.  All  those  brilliant 
figures,  members  of  his  own  class,  here  present,  were  matter  of 
indifference  to  him.  In  this  moment  of  conscious  and  supreme 
farewell,  it  was  to  the  dull-coloured  multitude  that  he  turned. 
They  still  moved  him  to  sympathy.  Unconsciously  they  had 
enlightened  him  concerning  matters  of  infinite  moment.  At  their 
hands  he  would  receive  penance  and  absolution.  Before  they 
dealt  more  closely  with  him,— since  that  dealing  must  involve 
suff"ering  which  might  temporarily  cloud  his  friendship  for  them, — 
he  wanted  to  bid  them  farewell  and  assure  them  of  his  conviction 
of  the  righteousness  of  their  corporate  action.  So,  silently,  he 
blessed  them,  taking  leave  of  them  in  peace.  Then  he  found 
there  were  other  farewells  to  be  said.-— Farewell  to  earthly  life  as 
he  had  known  it,  the  struggle  and  very  frequent  anguish  of  it, 
its  many  frustrated  purposes,  fair  illusions,  unfulfilled  hopes.  He 
must  bid  farewell,  moreover,  to  art  as  he  had  relished  it — to 
learning,  as  he  had  all  too  intermittently  pursued  it — to  travel,  as 
he  had  found  solace  in  it— to  the  inexhaustible  interest,  the 
inextinguishable  humour  and  pathos,  in  brief,  of  things  seen. 
And,  reviewing  all  this,  a  profound  nostalgia  of  all  those  minor 
happinesses  which  are  the  natural  inheritance  of  the  average  man 
arose  in  him — happiness  of  healthy,  light-hearted  activities,  not 
only  of  the  athlete  and  the  fighting-man,  but  of  the  playing-field, 
and  the  ball-room,  and  the  river — happinesses  to  him  inevitably 
denied.  With  an  almost  boyish  passion  of  longing,  he  cried  out 
for  these. — Just  for  one  day  to  have  lived  with  the  ease  and 
freedom  with  which  the  vast  majority  of  men  habitually  live  ! 
Just  for  one  day  to  have  been  neither  dwarf  nor  cripple  ;  but  tu 
have  taken  his  place  and  his  chance  along  with  the  rest,  before 
it  all  was  over  and  the  tale  told  ! 

But  very  soon  Richard  put  these  thoughts  from  him,  deeming 
it  unworthy  to  dwell  upon  them  at  this  juncture.     The  call  was 


482  SIR  RICHARD  CALM  AD  Y 

to  go  forward,  not  to  go  back.  So  he  settled  himself  in  his 
chair  once  more,  pulling  the  velvet  drapery  forward  so  as  to  shut 
out  the  sight  of  the  house.  Bitterness  should  have  no  part  in 
him.  When  tliat  happened  which  was  appointed  to  happen,  it 
must  find  him  not  only  acquiescent  but  serene  and  undisturbed. 
He  composed  himself,  therefore,  with  a  decent  and  even  lofty 
pride.  I'hen  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  narrow  door,  there  in 
the  semi-obscurity  of  the  back  of  the  box,  and  waited.  And  all 
the  while  royally,  triumphantly,  Morabita  sang. 

During  that  period  of  waiting — whether  in  itself  brief  or  pro- 
longed, he  knew  not — sensation  and  thought  alike  were  curiously 
in  abeyance.  Richard  neither  slept  nor  woke.  He  knew  that 
he  existed,  but  all  active  relation  to  being  had  ceased.  And  it 
was  with  painful  effort  he  in  a  measure  returned  to  more 
ordinary  correspondence  with  fact,  aroused  by  the  sound  of  low- 
toned,  emphatic  speech  close  at  hand,  and  by  a  scratching  as  of 
some  animal  denied  and  seeking  admittance.  Then  he  perceived 
that  the  door  yielded,  letting  in  a  spread  of  yellow  brightness 
from  the  corridor.  And  in  the  midst  of  that  brightness,  part  and 
parcel  of  it  thanks  to  the  lustre  of  her  crocus-yellow  dress,  her 
honey-coloured  hair,  her  fair  skin  and  softly-gleaming  ornaments, 
stood  Helen  de  Vallorbes.  Behind  her,  momentarily,  Richard 
caught  sight  of  the  young  man  whose  face  had  impressed  him  as 
a  ribald  travesty  of  that  of  some  being  altogether  worshipful  and 
holy.  The  face  peered  at  him  with,  as  it  seemed,  malicious 
curiosity  over  the  rounded  shoulder  of  the  woman  of  ivory  and 
gold.  The  effect  was  very  hateful,  and,  with  a  sense  of  thank- 
fulness, Richard  saw  Helen  close  the  door  and  come,  alone,  down 
the  two  steps  leading  from  the  back  of  the  box.  As  she  passed 
from  the  dimness  into  the  clearer  light,  he  watched  her,  quiescent, 
yet  with  absorbing  interest.  For  he  perceived  that  the  hands  of 
the  clock  had  been  put  back  somehow.  Intervening  years  and 
the  many  events  of  them  had  ceased  to  obtain,  so  that,  of  all 
the  many  Helens,  enchanting  or  evil,  whom  he  had  come  to 
know,  he  saw  now  only  one,  and  that  the  first  and  earliest — a 
little  dancer,  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat,  dainty  as  a  toy,  finished 
to  her  rosy  finger-tips  and  the  toes  of  her  pretty  shoes,  merry 
and  merciless,  as  she  had  pirouetted  round  him  mocking  his 
shuffling,  uncertain  progress  across  the  Chapel-Room  at  Brock- 
hurst  fifteen  years  ago. 

"Ah!   so   you   have    come    back!"   he   exclaimed,    almost 
involuntarily. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  pushed  a  chair  from  the  front  of  the 
box  into  the  shadow  of  the  velvet  draperies  beside  Richard. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  483 

"  It  is  unnecessary  that  all  Naples  should  take  part  in  our 
interview,"  she  said.  She  sat  down,  turning  to  him,  leaning  a 
little  towards  him. 

"  You  do  not  deserve  that  I  should  come  back,  you  know, 
Dickie,"  she  continued.  "  You  both  deserted  and  deceived  nic. 
That  is  hardly  chivalrous,  hardly  just  indeed,  after  taking  all  a 
woman  has  to  give.  You  led  me  to  suppose  you  had  departed 
for  good  and  all.     Why  should  you  deceive  me?" 

"The  yacht  was  not  ready  for  sea,"  Richard  said  simply. 

"Then  you  might,  in  common  charity,  have  let  me  know 
that.  You  were  bound  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
you  once  again,  I  think." 

In  his  present  state  of  detachment  from  all  worldly  concerns 
absolute  truthfulness  compelled  Richard.  The  event  was  so 
certain,  the  swarming  of  the  bees  so  very  near,  that  small 
diplomacies,  small  evasions,  seemed  absurdly  out  of  place. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  hear  you  speak,"  he  said. 

"  But  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  was  rather  dastardly  in  face 
of  what  had  taken  place  between  us  ?  Do  you  know  that  you 
appear  in  a  new  and  far  from  becoming  light  ?  " 

Denial  seemed  to  Richard  futile.     He  remained  silent. 

For  a  moment  Helen  looked  towards  the  stage.  When  she 
spoke  again  it  was  as  with  reluctance. 

"  I  was  desperately  unhappy.  I  went  all  over  the  villa  in  the 
vain  hope  of  finding  you.  I  went  back  to  that  room  of  yours 
in  which  we  parted.  I  wanted  to  see  it  again." — She  paused. 
Her  speech  was  low-toned,  soft  as  milk. — "  It  was  rather  dread- 
ful, Dickie,  for  the  place  was  all  in  disarray,  littered  with  signs 
of  your  hasty  departure,  damp,  cheerless — the  rain  beating  against 
the  windows.  And  I  hate  rain.  I  found  there,  not  you, — 
whom  I  so  sorely  wanted — but  something  very  much  else. — A 
letter  to  you  from  de  Vallorbes."  —  Once  more  she  paused. 
"I  excuse  you  of  anything  worse  than  negligence  in  omitting 
to  destroy  it.  Misery  knows  no  law,  and  I  was  miserable.  1 
read  it." 

Richard  had  listened  with  the  same  detachment,  yet  the  same 
absorbed  interest,  with  which  he  had  watched  her  entrance.  She 
was  a  wonderful  creature  in  her  adroitness,  in  her  handling  of 
means  to  serve  her  own  ends  !  But  he  could  not  pay  her  back  in  her 
own  coin.  The  lime  was  too  short  for  anything  but  simple  truth. 
He  felt  strangely  tired.  These  reiterated  delays  became  harassing. 
If  the  bees  would  swarm,  only  swarm  !  'I'hen  it  would  be  over, 
and  he  could  sleep.  He  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head  and 
looked  at  Madame  de  Vallorbes.     Her  soul  kneeled  on  her  lap, 


484  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

its  delicate  arms  were  clasped  about  her  neck — black  against  the 
lustrous  white  of  her  skin  and  all  those  twisted  ropes  of  seed 
pearls.  It  pressed  its  breasts  against  hers,  amorously.  It  loved 
her  and  she  it.  And  he  understood  that  in  the  whole  scope  of 
nature  there  was  but  it  alone,  it  only,  that  she  ever  had  loved,  or 
did,  or  could,  love.  And,  understanding  this,  he  was  filled  with 
a  great  compassion  for  her.  And,  answering  her,  his  expression 
was  gentle  and  pitiful.     Still  he  needs  must  speak  the  truth. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  you  should  read  Luigi's  letter," 
he  said. 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely  and  scornfully,  yet  even  as  she 
did  so  her  soul  fell  to  beckoning  to  him,  soUciting  him  with  evilly 
alluring  gestures. 

"  My  congratulations  to  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "  upon  your 
praiseworthy  candour !  I  am  to  gather,  then,  that  you  believe 
that  which  my  husband  advises  himself  to  tell  you  ?  Under  the 
circumstances  it  is  exceedingly  convenient  to  you  to  do  so  no 
doubt." 

"  How  can  I  avoid  believing  it  ?  "  Richard  asked,  quite  sweet- 
temperedly.  "Surely  we  need  not  waste  the  little  time  which 
remains  in  argument  as  to  that  ?  You  must  admit,  Helen,  that 
Luigi's  letter  fits  in.  It  supplies  just  the  piece  of  the  puzzle 
which  was  missing.     It  tallies  with  all  the  rest." 

"  All  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  It  is  part  of  the  whole,  precisely  that  part 
both  of  you  and  of  Naples  which  I  knew,  and  tried  so  hard  not 
to  know,  from  the  first.  But  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  practise 
such  refusals.  The  Whole,  and  nothing  less  than  the  Whole,  is 
bound  to  get  one  in  the  end.  It  is  contrary  to  the  nature  of 
things  that  any  integral  portion  of  the  whole  should  submit 
to  permanent  denial." — Richard's  voice  deepened.  He  spoke 
with  a  subdued  enthusiasm,  thinking  of  the  dull-coloured  multi- 
tude there  in  the  arena  and  the  act  of  retributive  justice  on 
the  eve,  by  them,  of  accomplishment. — "It  seems  to  me  the 
radical  weakness  of  all  human  institutions,  of  all  systems  of  thought, 
resides  in  exactly  that  effort  to  select  and  reject,  to  exalt  one 
part  as  against  another  part,  and  so  build  not  upon  the  rock  of 
unity  and  completeness,  but  upon  the  sand  of  partiality  and 
division.  And  sooner  or  later  the  Whole  revenges  itself,  and  the 
fine  fanciful  fabric  crumbles  to  ruin,  just  for  lack  of  that  which  in 
our  short-sighted  over-niceness  we  have  taken  such  mighty  great 
pains  to  miss  out !  This  has  happened  times  out  of  number  in 
respect  of  religions,  and  philosophies,  and  the  constitution  ot 
kingdoms,  and  in  that  of  fair  romances  which  promised  to  stand 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  485 

firm  to  all  eternity.  And  now,  now,  in  these  last  few  da}-?, — since 
laws  which  rule  the  general,  also  rule  the  individual  life, — it  has 
happened  in  respect  of  you,  Helen,  to  my  seeing,  and  in  respect 
of  Naples." — Richard  smiled  upon  her  sadly  and  very  sweetly. 
— "I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "yes,  indeed,  horribly  sorry.  It  is  a 
bitter  thing  to  see  the  last  of  one's  gods  go  overboard.  But  there 
is  no  remedy.     Sorry  or  not,  so  it  is." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  looked  at  him  keenly.  Her  attitude 
was  strained.     Her  face  sombre  with  thought. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "that  I  should  sit  and 
listen  to  all  this  !  And  yet  you  were  never  more  attractive. 
There  is  an  unnatural  force,  unnatural  beauty  about  you.  You 
are  ill,  Richard.  You  look  and  you  speak  as  a  man  might  who 
was  about  to  join  hands  with  death." 

But  Dickie's  attention  had  wandered  again.  He  pulled  the 
velvet  drapery  aside  somewhat,  and  gazed  down  into  the  crowded 
house.  They  lingered  strangely  in  the  performance  of  their 
mission,  that  dull-coloured  multitude  of  workers!  —  Just  then 
came  another  mighty  outburst  of  applause,  cries,  vivas,  the 
famous  soprano's  name  called  aloud.  The  sound  was  stimulating, 
as  the  shout  of  a  victorious  army.  Richard  hailed  it  as  sign  of 
speedy  deliverance,  and  sank  back  into  his  place. 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  he  said  civilly  and  lightly,  "  I  fancy  I  am  pretty 
bad.  I  am  a  bit  sick  of  this  continued  delay,  you  see.  I  suppose 
they  know  their  own  business  best,  but  they  do  seem  most  infernally 
slow  in  getting  under  weigh.  I  was  ready  hours  ago.  However, 
they  must  be  nearly  through  with  preliminaries  now.  And  when 
once  we're  fairly  into  it,  I  shall  be  all  right." 

"You  mean  when  the  yacht  sails?"  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
asked.  Still  she  looked  at  him  intently.  He  turned  to  her 
smiling,  and  she  observed  that  his  eyes  had  ceased  to  be  as 
windows  opening  back  onto  empty  space.  They  were  luminous 
with  a  certain  gay  content. 

"Yes,  of  course — when  the  yacht  sails,  if  you  like  to  put  it 
that  way,"  he  answered. 

"And  when  will  that  be?" 

The  shout  of  the  arena  grew  louder  in  the  recall.  It  surged 
up  to  the  roof  and  quivered  along  the  lath  and  plaster  partitions 
of  the  boxes. 

"Very  soon  now.  Immediately,  I  think,  please  God,"  he 
said. — But  why  should  she  make  him  speak  thus  foolishly  in 
riddles  ?  Of  a  surety  she  must  read  the  signs  of  the  approach  of 
that  momentous  and  benefirent  event  as  clearly  as  he  himself! 
Was  she  not  equally  with  himself  involved  in  it?     Was  she  not. 


486  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

like  himself,  to  be  cleansed  and  set  free  by  it  ?  Therefore  it 
came  as  a  painful  bewilderment  and  shock  to  him  when  she 
drew  closer  to  him,  leaned  forward,  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon 
his  thigh. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "  I  forgive  all.  I  am  not 
satisfied  with  loving.  I  will  come  with  you.  I  will  stay  with  you. 
I  will  be  faithful  to  you — yes,  yes,  even  that.  Your  loving  is 
unlike  any  other.  It  is  unicjue,  as  you  yourself  are  unique.  I — 
I  want  more  of  it." 

"  But  you  must  know  that  it  is  too  late  to  go  back  on  that 
now,"  he  said,  reasoning  with  her,  greatly  perplexed  and  distressed 
by  her  determined  ignoring  of — to  him — self-evident  fact.  "All 
that  side  of  things  for  us  is  over  and  done  with." 

Her  lips  parted  in  naughty  laughter.  And  then,  not  without 
a  shrinking  of  quick  horror,  Richard  beheld  the  soul  of  her — that 
being  of  lovely  proportions,  exquisitely  formed  in  every  part,  yet 
black  as  the  foul,  liquid  lanes  between  the  hulls  of  the  many  ships 
down  in  Naples  harbour — step  delicately  in  between  those  parted 
lips,  returning  whence  it  came.  And,  beholding  this,  instinctively 
he  raised  her  hand  from  where  it  rested  upon  his  thigh,  and  put 
it  from  him,  put  it  upon  her  glistering,  crocus-yellow  lap  where 
her  soul  had  so  lately  kneeled. 

"  Let  us  say  no  more,  Helen,"  he  entreated,  "  lest  we  both 
forfeit  our  remaining  chance,  and  become  involved  in  hopeless  and 
final  condemnation." 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  anger  rose  to  overwhelming  height. 
She  slapped  her  hands  together. 

"Ah,  you  despise  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  But  let  me  assure  you 
that  in  any  case  this  assumption  of  virtue  becomes  you  singularly 
ill.  It  really  is  a  little  bit  too  cheap,  a  work  of  supererogation  in 
the  matter  of  hypocrisy.  Have  the  courage  of  your  vices.  Be 
honest.  You  can  be  so  to  the  point  of  insult  when  it  serves  your 
purpose.  Own  that  you  are  capricious,  own  that  you  have 
lighted  upon  some  woman  who  provokes  your  appetite  more 
than  I  do  !  I  have  been  too  tender  of  you,  too  lenient  with  you. 
I  have  loved  too  much  and  been  weakly  desirous  to  please.  Own 
that  you  are  tired  of  me,  that  you  no  longer  care  for  me  ! " 

And  he  answered,  sadly  enough  : — 

"  Yes,  that  last  is  true.  Having  seen  the  Whole,  that  has 
happened  which  I  always  dreaded  might  happen.  The  last  of 
my  self-made  gods  has  indeed  gone  overboard.  I  care  for  you 
no  longer." 

Helen  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  ran  to  the  door,  flung  it  open. 
The  first  act  of  the  opera  was  concluded.    The  curtain  had  come 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  ■     487 

down.     The  house  below  and  around,  the  corridor  without,  were 
full  of  confused  noise  and  movement. 

"Paul,    M.   Destournelle,    come   here,"    she    cried,    "and   at 
once  ! " 

But  Richard  was  more  than  ever  tired.  The  strain  of  waitins 
had  been  too  prolonged.  Lights,  draperies,  figures,  the  crowded 
arena,  the  vast  honeycomb  of  boxes,  tier  above  tier,  swam  before 
his  eyes,  blurred,  indistinct,  vague,  shifting,  colossal  in  height, 
giddy  in  depth.  The  bees  were  swarming,  at  last,  swarming 
upward  through  seas  of  iridescent  mist.  But  he  had  no  longer 
empire  over  his  own  attitude  and  thoughts.  He  had  hoped  to 
meet  the  supreme  moment  in  full  consciousness,  with  clear  vision 
and  thankfulness  of  heart.  But  he  was  too  tired  to  do  so,  tired 
in  brain  and  body  alike.  And  so  it  happened  that  a  dogged 
endurance  grew  on  him,  simply  a  setting  of  the  teeth  and  bracing 
of  himself  to  suffer  silendy,  even  stupidly,  all  that  might  be  in 
store.  For  the  bees  were  close  upon  him  now,  countless  in 
number,  angry,  grudging,  violent.  But  they  no  longer  appeared 
as  insects.  They  were  human,  save  for  their  velvet-like,  expres- 
sionless eyes.  And  all  those  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  and  him 
alone.  He  was  the  centre  towards  which,  in  thought  and  action, 
all  turned.  Nor  were  the  dull-coloured  occupants  of  "Ci^o.  parterre 
alone  in  their  attack.  For  those  gay-coloured  larvre — the  men 
and  women  of  his  own  class — indolent,  licentious,  full-fed,  hung 
out  of  the  angular  mouths  of  the  waxen  cells,  above  the  crimson 
and  gold  of  the  cushions,  pointing  at  him,  claiming  and  yet  de- 
nouncing him.  And  in  the  attitude  of  these — the  democratic  and 
the  aristocratic  sections — he  detected  a  difference.  The  former 
swarmed  to  inflict  punishment  for  his  selfishness,  uselessness, 
sensuality.  But  the  latter  jeered  and  mocked  at  his  bodily 
infirmity,  deriding  his  deformity,  making  merry  over  his 
shortened  limbs  and  shuffling  walk.  And  against  this  back- 
ground, against  this  all-enclosing  tapestry  of  faces  which  encircled 
him,  two  persons,  and  the  atmosphere  and  aroma  of  them,  so  to 
speak,  were  clearly  defined,  'i'hey  were  close  to  him,  here  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  opera  box.  Then  a  great  humiliation 
overtook  Richard,  perceiving  that  they,  and  not  the  jjcojjIc,  the 
workers,  august  in  their  corporate  power  and  strength,  were  to  be 
his  executioners.  No — no — he  wasn't  worth  that!  And,  for 
all  his  present  dulncss  of  sensation,  a  soIj  rose  in  his  throat. 
Madame  de  Vallorbcs,  resj)lendcnt  in  crocus-yellow  brocade, 
costly  lace,  and  seed  [)earls,  tlie  young  man,  her  companion — the 
young  man  of  the  light,  forked  heard,  domed  skull,  vain  eyes  and 
peevish  mouth — the  young  man  of  holy  and  dissolute  aspect — 


488  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

were  good  enough  instruments  for  the  Eternal  Justice  to  employ 
in  respect  of  him,  Richard  ( Jalmady. 

"Look,  M.  Destournelle,"  Helen  said  very  quietly,  "this  is 
my  cousin  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken  to  you.  But  I  wished 
to  spare  him  if  possible,  and  give  him  room  for  self-justification, 
so  I  did  not  tell  you  all.  Richard,  this  is  my  friend,  M. 
Destournelle,  to  whom  my  honour  and  happiness  are  not 
wholly  indifferent." 

Dickie  looked  up.  He  did  not  speak.  Vaguely  he  prayed  it 
might  all  soon  be  over.  Paul  Destournelle  looked  down.  He 
raised  his  eye-glass  and  bowed  himself,  examining  Richard's 
mutilated  legs  and  strangely-shod  feet.  He  broke  into  a  little, 
bleating,  goat-like  laugh. 

"Mais  c\'st  etojina/if  f''  he  observed  reflectively. 

"  I  was  in  his  house,"  Helen  continued.  "  I  was  there  un- 
protected, having  absolute  faith  in  his  loyalty." — She  paused  a 
moment.     "  He  seduced  me.     Richard,  can  you  deny  that  ?  " 

"  Canaille  f^^  M.  Destournelle  murmured.  He  drew  a  pair  of 
gloves  through  his  hands,  holding  them  by  the  finger-tips.  I'he 
metal  buttons  of  them  were  large,  three  on  each  wrist.  Those 
gloves  arrested  Richard's  attention  oddly. 

"  I  do  not  deny  it,"  Dickie  said. 

"  And  having  thus  outraged,  he  deserted  me.  Do  you  deny 
that?" 

"  No,"  Dickie  said  again.  For  it  was  true,  that  which  she 
asserted,  true,  though  penetrated  by  subtle  falsehood  impossible, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  to  combat. — "No,  I  do  not  deny  it." 

"  You  hear !"  Helen  exclaimed.    "  Now  do  what  you  think  fit." 

Still  Destournelle  drew  the  gloves  through  his  hands, 
holding  them  by  the  finger-tips. 

"  Under  other  circumstances  I  might  feel  myself  compelled  to 
do  you  the  honour  of  sending  you  a  challenge,  7notisieur"  he 
said.  "  But  a  man  of  sensibility  like  myself  cannot  do  such 
violence  to  his  moral  and  artistic  code  as  to  fight  with  an  outcast 
of  nature,  an  abortion,  such  as  yourself.  The  sword  and  the  pistol 
I  necessarily  reserve  for  my  equals.  The  deformed  person,  the 
cripple,  whose  very  existence  is  an  offence  to  the  eye  and  to  every 
delicacy  of  sense,  must  be  condescended  to,  and,  if  chastised  at 
all,  must  be  chastised  without  ceremony,  chastised  as  one  would 
chastise  a  dog." 

And  with  that  he  struck  Richard  again  and  again  across  the 
face  with  those  metal-buttoned  gloves. 

Mad  with  rage,  blinded  and  sick  with  pain,  Dickie  essayed  to 
fling   himself  upon  his   assailant.       But   Destournelle   was   too 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  489 

adroit  for  him.  He  skipped  aside,  with  his  little,  bleating,  goat- 
like laugh  j  and  Richard  fell  heavily,  full  length,  his  forehead 
coming  in  contact  with  the  lower  step  of  the  descent  from  the 
back  of  the  box.     He  lay  there,  too  weak  to  raise  himself. 

Paul  Destournelle  bent  down  and  again  examined  him 
curiously. 

"  Cest  efoftnantf^'  he  repeated. — He  gave  the  prostrate  body 
a  contemptuous  kick.  "  Dear  madame,  are  you  sufficiently 
avenged?     Is  it  enough?"  he  inquired  sneeringly. 

And  vaguely,  as  from  some  incalculable  distance,  Richard 
heard  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  voice : — "  Yes— it  is  a  little  affair  of 
honour  which  dates  from  my  childhood.  It  has  taken  many 
years  in  adjusting.  I  thank  you,  mon  cher,  a  thousand  times. 
Now  let  us  go  quickly.     It  is  enough." 

Then  came  darkness,  silence,  rest. 


BOOK  YI 

THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  THE  NEW 

EARTH 

f 

CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH    MISS    ST.    QUENTIN    BEARS    WITNESS    TO    THE    FAITH 

THAT    IS    IN    HEU 

HONORIA  divested  herself  of  her  travelling-cap,  thrust  her 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  her  frieze  ulster,  and  thus, 
bare-headed,  a  tall,  supple,  solitary  figure,  paced  the  railway 
platform  in  the  dusk.  Above  the  gentle  undulations  of  the 
western  horizon  splendours  of  rose  -  crimson  sunset  were  out- 
spread, veiled,  as  they  flamed  upward,  by  indigo  cloud  of  the 
texture  and  tenuity  of  finest  gauze.  And  those  same  rose- 
crimson  splendours  found  repetition  upon  the  narrow,  polished 
surface  of  the  many  lines  of  rails,  causing  them  to  stand  out,  as 
though  of  red-hot  metal,  from  the  undeterminate  grey-drab  of  the 
track  where  it  curved  away,  south-eastward,  across  the  darkening 
country  towards  the  Savoy  Alps.  And  from  out  the  fastnesses 
of  these  last,  quick  with  the  bleak  purity  of  snow,  came  a  breath- 
ing of  evening  wind.  To  Honoria  it  brought  refreshing  emphasis 
of  silence,  and  of  immunity  from  things  human  and  things 
mechanical.  It  spoke  to  her  of  virgin  and  unvisited  spaces, 
ignorant  of  mankind  and  of  obligation  to  his  so  many  and  so 
insistent  needs.  And  there  being  in  Honoria  herself  a  kindred 
defiance  of  subjection,  a  determination,  so  to  speak,  of  physical 
and  emotional  chastity,  she  welcomed  these  intimations  of  the 
essential  inviolability  of  nature,  finding  in  them  justification  and 
support  of  her  own  mental  attitude — of  the  entire  wisdom  of 
which  she  had,  it  must  be  owned,  grown  slightly  suspicious  of 
late. 

400 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  491 

And  this  was  the  more  grateful  to  her,  not  only  as  contrast 
to  the  noise  and  dust  of  a  lengthy  and  hurriedly-undertaken 
journey ;  but  because  that  same  journey  had  been  suddenly,  and, 
in  a  sense  violently,  imposed  upon  one  whom  she  held  in  highest 
regard,  by  another  whom  she  had  long  since  agreed  with  herself 
to  hold  in  no  sort  of  regard  at  all.  Since  the  highly-regarded 
one  set  forth,  she — Honoria — of  course,  set  forth  likewise.  And 
yet,  in  good  truth,  the  whole  affair  rubbed  her  not  a  little 
the  wrong  way  !  She  recognised  in  it  a  particularly  flagrant 
example  of  masculine  aggression.  Some  persons,  as  she  re- 
flected, are  permitted  an  amount  of  elbow-room  altogether  dispro- 
portionate to  their  deserts.  Be  sufficiently  selfish,  sufficiently 
odious,  and  everybody  becomes  your  humble  servant,  hat  in 
hand  !  That  is  unfair.  It  is,  indeed,  quite  extensively  exasperat- 
ing to  the  dispassionate  onlooker.  And,  in  Miss  St.  Quentin's 
case,  exasperation  was  by  no  means  lessened  by  the  fact  that 
candour  compelled  her  to  admit  doubt  not  only  as  to  the 
actuality  of  her  own  dispassionateness,  but,  as  has  already  been 
stated,  as  to  the  wisdom  of  her  mental  attitude  generally.  She 
wanted  to  think  and  feel  one  way.  She  was  more  than  half  afraid 
she  was  much  disposed  to  think  and  feel  quite  another  way.  This 
was  worrying.  And,  therefore,  it  came  about  that  Honoria  hailed 
the  present  interval  of  silence  and  solitude,  striving  to  put  from  her 
remembrance  both  the  origin  and  object  of  her  journey,  while  fill- 
ing her  lungs  with  the  snow-fed  purity  of  the  mountain  wind  and 
yielding  her  spirit  to  the  somewhat  serious  influences  of  surround- 
ing nature.  All  too  soon  the  great  Paris-express  would  thunder 
into  the  station.  The  heavy,  horse-box-like  sleeping-car — now 
standing  on  the  Culoz-Geneva-Bale  siding — would  be  coupled  to 
the  rear  of  it.  I'hen  the  roar  and  rush  would  begin  again — from 
dark  to  dawn,  and  on  through  the  long,  bright  hours  to  dark  once 
more,  by  mountain  gorge,  and  stifling  tunnel,  and  broken  wood- 
land, and  smiling  coast -line,  and  fertile  plain,  past  Chambcry, 
and  Turin,  and  Bologna,  and  mighty  Rome  herself,  until  the 
journey  was  ended  and  distant  Naples  reached  at  last. 

But  Miss  St.  Quentin's  communings  with  nature  were  destined 
to  speedy  interruption.  Ludovic  Quayle's  elongated  person, 
clothed  to  the  heels  in  a  check  travelling-coat,  detached  itself 
from  the  comi)any  of  waiting  passengers,  and  l^lue-linen-clad 
porters,  upon  the  central  platform  before  the  main  block  of 
station  buildings,  and  made  its  light  and  active  way  across  the 
intervening  lines  of  crimson-stained  metals. 

"If  I  am  a  nuisance  mention  that  chastening  fact  without 
hesitation,"  he  said,  standing  on  the  railway  track  and  looking 


49^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

up  at  her  with  his  air  of  very  urbane  intelligence.  "  Present 
circumstances  permit  us  the  privilege — or  otherwise — of  laying 
aside  restraints  of  speech,  along  with  other  small  proprieties  of 
behaviour  commonly  observed  by  the  polite.  So  don't  spare 
my  feelings,  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin.  If  I  am  a  bore,  tell  me  so  ; 
and  I  will  return,  and  that  without  any  lurking  venom  in  my 
breast,  whence  I  came." 

"  Do  anything  you  please,"  Honoria  replied,  "  except  be  run 
over  by  the  Paris  train." 

"The  Paris  train,  so  I  have  just  learned,  is  an  hour  late, 
consequently  its  arrival  hardly  enters  into  the  question.  But, 
since  you  are  graciously  pleased  to  bid  me  do  as  I  like,  I  stay," 
Mr.  Quayle  returned,  stepping  on  to  the  platform  and  turning  to 
pace  beside  her. — "What  a  gaol  delivery  it  is  to  get  into  the 
open  !  That  last  engine  of  ours  threw  ashes  to  a  truly  penitential 
extent.  My  mouth  and  throat  still  claim  unpleasantly  close 
relation  to  a  neglected,  kitchen  grate.  And  if  our  much  vaunted 
wagon-lits  is  the  last  word  of  civilisation  in  connection  with 
travel,  then  all  I  can  say  is  that,  in  my  humble  opinion,  civilisa- 
tion has  yet  a  most  exceedingly  long  way  to  go.  It  really  is  a 
miraculously  uncomfortable  vehicle.  And  how  Lady  Calmady 
contrives  to  endure  its  eccentricities  of  climate  and  of  motion, 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  In  her  case  the  end  would  make  any  sort  of  means  support- 
able," Honoria  answered. 

Her  pacings  had  brought  her  to  the  extreme  end  of  the 
platform  where  it  sloped  to  the  level  of  the  track.  She  stood 
there  a  moment,  her  head  thrown  back,  snuffing  the  wind 
as  a  hind,  breaking  covert,  stands  and  snuffs  it.  A  spirit  of 
questioning  possessed  her,  though  not — as  in  the  hind's  case — 
of  things  concrete  and  material.  It  is  true  she  could  have  dis- 
pensed with  Mr.  Quayle's  society.  She  did  not  want  him.  But 
he  had  shown  himself  so  full  of  resource,  so  considerate  and 
helpful,  ever  since  the  news  of  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  desperate 
state  had  broken  up  the  peace  of  the  little  party  at  Ormiston 
Castle,  now  five  days  ago,  that  she  forgave  him  even  his  precious- 
ness  of  speech,  even  his  slightly  irritating  superiority  of  manner. 
She  had  ceased  to  be  on  her  guard  with  him  during  these  days 
of  travel,  had  come  to  take  his  presence  for  granted  and  to 
treat  him  with  the  comfortable  indifference  of  honest  good- 
fellowship.  So,  it  happened  that  now,  speaking  with  him,  she 
continued  to  follow  out  her  existing  train  of  thought. 

"  I'm  by  no  means  off  my  head  about  poor  Dickie  Calmady," 
she  said  presently, — "  specially  where  Cousin  Katherine  is  con- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  493 

cerned.  I  couldn't  go  on  caring  about  anybody,  irrespective  of 
their  conduct,  just  because  they  were  they.  And  yet  I  can't 
help  seeing  it  must  be  tremendously  satisfying  to  feel  like  that." 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  Ludovic  murmured,  "  but  like 
what  ?  " 

"  Why  as  Cousin  Katherine  feels — ^just  whole-heartedly,  with- 
out analysis,  and  without  alloy — to  feel  that  no  distance,  no 
fatigue,  no  nothing  in  short,  matters,  so  long  as  she  gets  to  him 
in  time.  I  don't  approve  of  such  a  state  of  mind,  and  yet " — 
Honoria  wheeled  round,  facing  the  glory  of  colour  dyeing  all  the 
west — "and  yet,  I'm  untrue  enough  to  my  own  principles  rather 
to  envy  it." 

She  sighed,  and  that  sigh  her  companion  noted  and  filed  for 
reference.  Indeed,  an  unusually  expansive  cheerfulness  became 
perceptible  in  Mr.  Quayle. 

"  By-the-bye,  is  there  any  further  news  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"General  Ormiston  has  just  had  a  telegram." 

"Anything  fresh?" 

"  Still  unconscious,  strength  fairly  maintained." 

"  Oh  !  we  know  that  by  heart ! "  Honoria  said. 

"  We  do.  And  we  know  the  consequences  of  it — the  sweet 
little  see-saw  of  hope  and  fear,  productive  of  unlimited  discussion 
and  anxiety.  No  weak  letting  one  stand  at  ease  about  that 
telegram  1     It  keeps  one's  nose  hard  down  on  the  grindstone." 

"  If  he  dies,"  Honoria  said  slowly,  "  if  he  dies — poor,  dear 
Cousin  Katherine  ! — When  can  we  hear  again  ?  " 

"  At  Turin,"  Mr.  Quayle  replied. 

Then  they  both  fell  silent  until  the  far  end  of  the  platform 
was  reached.  And  there,  once  more,  Honoria  paused,  her  small 
head  carried  high,  her  serious  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sunset.  The 
rosy  light  falling  upon  her  failed  to  disguise  the  paleness  of  her 
face  or  its  slight  angularity  of  line.  She  was  a  little  worn  and 
travel-stained,  a  little  dishevelled  even.  Yet  to  her  companion 
she  had  rarely  appeared  more  charming.  She  might  be  tired,  she 
might  even  be  somewhat  untidy ;  but  her  innate  distinction 
remained — nay,  gained,  so  he  judged,  by  suggestion  of  rough 
usage  endured.  Her  absolute  absence  of  affectation,  her  unself- 
consciousncss,  her  indifference  to  adventitious  prettinesses  of 
toilet,  her  transparent  sincerity,  were  very  entirely  approved  by 
Ludovic  Quayle. 

"  Yes,  that  see-saw  of  hojie  and  fear  must  be  an  awful  ordeal, 
feeling  as  she  does,"  Miss  St.  (Juentin  said  presently.  "  And 
yet,  even  so,  I  am  uncertain.  I  can't  help  wondering  which 
really  is  best ! " 


494  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Again  a  tliousand  i)ardons,"  the  young  man  put  in,  "but  I 
venture  to  remind  you  that  I  was  not  cradled  in  the  fore-court  of 
the  temple  of  the  Pythian  Apollo,  but  only  in  the  nursery  of  a 
conspicuously  philistine,  English  country-house." 

For  the  first  time  during  their  conversation  Honoria  looked 
full  at  him.  Her  glance  was  very  friendly,  yet  it  remained 
meditative,  even  a  trifle  sad. 

"  Oh  !  I  know,  I'm  fearfully  inconsequent,"  she  said.  "  But 
my  head  is  simply  rattled  to  pieces  by  that  beastly  wago?i-lifs. 
I  had  gone  back  to  what  I  was  thinking  about  before  you  joined 
me,  and  to  what  we  were  saying  just  now  about  Cousin 
Katherine." 

"  Yes — yes,  exactly,"  Ludovic  put  in  tentatively.  She  was 
going  to  give  herself  away — he  was  sure  of  it.  And  such  giving  away 
might  make  for  opportunity.  In  spirit,  the  young  man  proceeded 
to  take  his  shoes  from  off  his  feet.  The  ground  on  which  he 
stood  might  prove  to  be  holy.  Moreover  Miss  St.  Quentin's 
direct  acts  of  self-revelation  were  few  and  far  between.  He  was 
horribly  afraid  those  same  shoes  of  his  might  creak,  so  to  speak, 
thereby  startling  her  into  watchfulness,  making  her  draw  back. 
But  Honoria  did  not  draw  back.  She  was  too  much  absorbed  by 
her  own  thought.  She  continued  to  contemplate  the  giory  of  the 
flaming  west,  her  expression  touched  by  a  grave  and  noble 
exaltation. 

"  I  suppose  one  can't  help  worrying  a  little  at  times — it's  laid 
hold  of  me  very  much  during  the  last  month  or  two — as  to  what 
is  really  the  finest  way  to  take  life.  One  wants  to  arrive  at  that 
fairly  early  ;  not  by  a  process  of  involuntary  elimination,  on  the 
burnt-chilci-fears-the-fire  sort  of  principle,  when  the  show's  more 
than  half  over,  as  so  many  people  do.  One  wants  to  get  hold  of 
the  stick  by  the  right  end  now,  while  one's  still  comparatively 
young,  and  then  work  straight  along.  I  want  my  reason  to  be 
the  backbone  of  my  action,  don't  you  know,  instead  of  merely 
the  push  of  society  and  friendship,  and  superficial  odds  and  ends 
of  so-called  obligation  to  other  people." 

"  Yes,"  Mr  Quayle  put  in  again. 

"  Now,  it  seems  to  me,  that " — Honoria  extended  one  hand 
towards  the  sunset — "  is  Cousin  Katherine's  outlook  on  life  and 
humanity,  full  of  colour,  full  of  warmth.  It  burns  with  a  certain 
prodigality  of  beauty,  a  superb  absence  of  economy  in  giving. 
And  that" — with  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders  she  turned 
towards  the  severe,  and  sombre,  eastern  landscape — "that,  it 
strikes  me,  comes  a  good  deal  nearer  my  own.     Which  is  best  ?  " 

Mr.   Quayle  congratulated  himself  upon  the  removal  of  his 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  495 

shoes.  The  ground  was  holy — holy  to  the  point  of  embarrass- 
ment even  to  so  unabashable  and  ready-tongued  a  gentleman 
as  himself.     He  answered  with  an  unusual  degree  of  diffidence. 

"  An  intermediate  position  is  neither  wholly  inconceivable  nor 
wholly  untenable,  perhaps." 

"  And  you  occupy  it  ?  Yes,  you  are  very  neatly  balanced. 
But  then,  do  you  really  get  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Is  not  that  a  rather  knavish  speech,  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin  ?  " 
the  young  man  inquired  mildly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  "  I  wish  to  goodness  I  did." 

Now  was  here  god-given  opportunity,  or  merely  a  cunningly 
devised  snare  for  the  taking  of  the  unwary  ?  Ludovic  pondered 
the  matter.  He  gently  kicked  a  little  pebble  from  the  dingy  grey- 
drab  of  the  asphalt  on  to  the  permanent  way.  It  struck  one  of 
the  metals  with  a  sharp  click.  A  blue-linen-clad  porter,  short  of 
stature  and  heavy  of  build,  lighted  the  gas  lamps  along  the 
platform.  The  flame  of  these  wavered  at  first,  and  flickered, 
showing  thin  and  will-o'-the-wisp-like  against  the  great  outspread  of 
darkening  country  across  which  the  wind  came  with  a  certain 
effect  of  harshness  and  barrenness — the  inevitable  concomitant 
of  its  inherent  purity.  And  the  said  wind  treated  Miss  St. 
Quentin  somewhat  discourteously,  buffeting  her,  obliging  her  to 
put  up  both  hands  to  push  back  stray  locks  of  hair.  Also  the 
keen  breath  of  it  pierced  her,  making  her  shiver  a  little.  Both 
of  which  things  her  companion  noting  took  heart  of  grace. 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  renew  a  certain  petition? "  he  asked,  in  a 
low  voice. 

Honoria  shook  her  head. 

"  Better  not,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"And  yet,  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,  pulverised  though  I  am  by 
the  weight  of  my  own  unworthiness,  I  protest  that  petition  is  not 
wholly  foreign  to  the  question  you  did  me  the  honour  to  ask  me 
just  now." 

"  Oh  !  dear  me  !  You  always  contrive  to  bring  it  round  to 
that ! "  she  exclaimed,  not  without  a  hint  of  petulance. 

"  Far  from  it,"  the  young  man  returned.  "  For  a  good,  solid, 
eighteen  months,  now,  I  have  displayed  the  accumulated  patience 
of  innumerable  asses." 

"Of  course,  I  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  she  continued 
hastily.  "  But  it  is  not  original.  It's  just  every  man's  stock 
argument." 

"  If  it  bears  the  hall  mark  of  hoary  antiquity,  so  much  the 
better.  I  entertain  a  reverence  for  precedent.  And  honestly,  as 
common  sense  goes,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  that  of  my  sex." 


496  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Miss  St.  Quentin  resumed  her  walk. 

"  You  really  think  it  stands  in  one's  way,"  she  said 
reflectively,  "  you  really  think  it  a  disadvantage,  to  be  a 
woman  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  good  Lord  ! "  Mr  Quayle  ejaculated,  softly  yet  with  nn 
air  so  humorously  aghast  that  it  could  leave  no  doubt  as  to  the 
nature  of  his  sentiments.  Then  he  cursed  himself  for  a  fool. 
His  shoes  indeed  had  made  a  mighty  creaking  !  He  expected 
an  explosion  of  scornful  wrath.  He  admitted  he  deserved  it.  It 
did  not  come. 

;Miss  St.  Quentin  looked  at  him,  for  a  moment,  almost 
piteously.  He  fancied  her  mouth  quivered  and  that  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Then  she  turned  and  swung  away  with  her  long, 
easy,  even  stride.  Mentally  the  young  man  took  himself  by  the 
throat,  conscience-stricken  at  having  humiliated  her,  at  having 
caused  her  to  fall,  even  momentarily,  from  the  height  of  her  serene, 
maidenly  dignity.  For  once  he  became  absolutely  uncritical, 
careless  of  appearances.  He  fairly  ran  after  her  along  the 
platform. 

"  Dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  called  to  her,  in  tones  of  most 
persuasive  apology. 

But  Honoria's  moment  of  piteousness  was  past.  She  had 
recovered  all  her  habitual  lazy  and  gallant  grace  when  he  came 
up  with  her. 

"  No — no,"  she  said.  "  Hear  me.  I  began  this  rather 
foolish  conversation.  I  laid  myself  open  to — well  to  a  snub- 
bing.    I  got  one,  anyhow  !  " 

"  In  mercy  don't  rub  it  in  !  "  Mr.  Quayle  murmured  contritely. 

"But  I  did,"  Honoria  returned.  "Now  it's  over  and  I'm 
going  to  pick  up  the  pieces  and  put  them  back  in  their  places — 
just  where  they  were  before." 

"But  I  protest ! — I  hailed  a  new  combination.  I  discover  in 
myself  no  wild  anxiety  to  have  the  pieces  put  back  just  where 
they  were  before." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do!"  Honoria  declared.  "At  least,  you 
certainly  will  when  I  explain  it  to  you."^She  paused. — "You 
see,"  she  said,  "  it  is  like  this.  Living  with  and  watching 
Cousin  Katherine,  I  have  come  to  know  all  that  side  of  things  at 
its  very  finest." 

"  Forgive  me. — It  ?  What  ?  May  I  recall  to  you  the  fact 
of  the  philistine  nursery?" 

The  young  lady's  delicate  face  straightened. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,"  she  said. — "That 
which  we  all  think  about  so  constantly,  and  yet  affect  to  speak 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  497 

of  as  a  joke  or  a  slight  impropriety — love,  marriage,  mother- 
hood." 

"Yes,  Lady  Calmady  is  a  past-master  in  those  arts,"  Mr. 
Quayle  replied. — Again  the  ground  was  holy.  He  was  conscious 
his  pulse  quickened. 

"The  beauty  of  it  all,  as  one  sees  it  in  her  case,  breaks  one 
up  a  little.  There  is  no  laugh  left  in  one  about  those  things. 
I  One  sees  that  to  her  they  are  of  the  nature  of  religion — a  religion 
pure  and  undefiled,  a  new  way  of  knowing  God  and  of  bringing 
I  oneself  into  line  with  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Him.  But,  having 
once  seen  that,  one  can  decline  upon  no  lower  level.  One  grows 
ambitious.     One  will  have  it  that  way  or  not  at  all." 

Honoria  paused  again.  The  bleak  wind  buffeted  her.  But 
she  was  no  longer  troubled  or  chilled  by  it,  rather  did  it  brace 
her  to  greater  fearlessness  of  resolve  and  of  speech. 

"You  are  contemptuous  of  women,"  she  said. 

"I  have  betrayed  characteristics  of  the  ass,  other  than  its 
patience,"  Ludovic  lamented. 

"  Oh !  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Honoria  returned,  smiling  in 
friendliest  fashion  upon  him.  "Every  man  worth  the  name 
really  feels  as  you  do,  I  imagine.  I  don't  blame  you.  Possibly 
I  am  growing  a  trifle  shaky  as  to  feminine  superiority,  and  woman 
spelled  with  a  capital  letter,  myself.  I'm  awfully  afraid  she  is 
safest — for  herself  and  others — under  slight  restraint,  in  a  state 
of  mild  subjection.  She's  not  quite  to  be  trusted,  either  in- 
tellectually or  emotionally — at  least,  the  majority  of  her  isn't.  If 
she  got  her  head,  I've  a  dreadful  suspicion  she  would  make  a 
worse  hash  of  creation  generally  than  you  men  have  made  of  it 
already,  and  that" — Honoria's  eyes  narrowed,  her  upper  lip 
shortened,  and  her  smile  shone  out  again  delightfully — "  that's 
saying  a  very  great  deal,  you  know." 

"My  spirits  rise  to  giddy  heights,"  Mr.  Quayle  exclaimed. 
"  I  endorse  those  sentiments.  But  whence,  oh,  dear  lady,  this 
change  of  front  ?  " 

"Wait  a  minute.  We've  not  got  to  the  end  of  my  con- 
tention yet." 

"'I'he  Paris  train  is  late.  There  is  time.  And  this  is  all 
excellent  hearing." 

"I'm  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,"  Honoria  said.  "For,  you 
see,  just  in  projjortion  as  I  give  up  the  fiction  of  her  superiority, 
and  admit  that  woman  already  has  her  political,  domestic,  and 
social  deserts,  I  feel  a  chivalry  towards  her,  poor,  dear  thing,  wlii(  h 
1  never  felt  before.  I  even  feel  a  chivalry  towards  the  woman  in 
myself,     .She  claims  my  pity  and  my  care  in  a  (juite  new  way." 

3= 


498  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  So  much  the  better,"  Mr.  Quayle  observed,  outwardly  dis- 
creetly urbane,  inwardly  almost  riotously  jubilant. 

"  Ah  !  wait  a  minute,"  she  repeated.  Her  tone  changed, 
sobered.  "  I  don't  want  to  spread  myself,  but  you  know  I  can 
meet  men  pretty  well  on  their  own  ground.  I  could  shoot  and 
tish  as  well  as  most  of  you,  only  that  I  don't  think  it  right  to 
take  life  except  to  provide  food,  or  in  self-defence.  There's  not 
so  much  happiness  going  that  one's  justified  in  cutting  any  of 
it  short.  Even  a  jack-snipe  may  have  his  little  affairs  of  the 
heart,  and  a  cock-salmon  his  gamble.  But  I  can  ride  as  straight 
as  you  can.  I  can  break  any  horse  to  harness  you  choose  to 
put  me  behind.  I  can  sail  a  boat  and  handle  an  axe.  I  can 
turn  my  hand  to  most  practical  things — except  a  needle.  I  own 
I  always  have  hated  a  needle  worse — well,  worse  than  the  devil ! 
And  I  can  organise,  and  can  speak  fairly  well,  and  manage 
business  affairs  tidily.  And  have  I  not  even  been  known — low 
be  it  spoken — to  beat  you  at  lawn  tennis,  and  Lord  Shotover  at 
billiards?" 

•'And  to  overthrow  my  most  Socratic  father  in  argument. 
And  outwit  my  sister  Louisa  in  diplomacy — vide  our  poor,  dear 
Dickie  Calmady's  broken  engagement,  and  the  excellent,  scatter- 
brain  Decies'  marriage." 

"But  Lady  Constance  is  happy?"  Honoria  put  in  hastily. 

"  Blissful,  positively  blissful,  and  with  twins  too  !  Think  of 
it ! — Decies  is  blissful  also.  His  sense  of  humour  has  deteriorated 
since  his  marriage,  from  constant  association  with  good,  little 
Connie  who  was  never  distinguished  for  ready  perception  of  a 
joke.  He  regards  those  small,  simultaneous  replicas  of  himself 
with  unqualified  complacency,  which  shows  his  appreciation  of 
comedy  must  be  a  bit  blunted." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  does  ?  "  Miss  St.  Quentin  observed  reflectively. 
Whereat  Mr.  Quayle  permitted  himself  a  sound  as  nearly  ap- 
proaching a  chuckle  as  was  possible  to  so  superior  a  person. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  he  murmured,  "  but  really,  dear 
lady,  you  are  so  very  much  off  on  the  other  tack." 

"  Am  I  ? "  Miss  St.  Quentin  said.  *'  Well,  you  see — to  go 
back  to  my  demonstration — I've  none  of  the  quarrel  with  your 
side  of  things  most  women  have,  because  I'm  not  shut  out  from 
it,  and  so  I  don't  envy  you.  I  can  amuse  and  interest  myself 
on  your  lines.  And  therefore  I  can  afford  to  be  very  considerate 
and  tender  of  the  woman  in  me.  I  grow  more  and  more  resolved 
that  she  shall  have  the  very  finest  going,  or  that  she  shall  have 
nothing,  in  respect  of  all  which  belongs  to  her  special  province — ■ 
in  regard  to  love  and  marriage.     In  them  she  shall  have  what 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  499 

Cousin  Katherine  has  had,  and  find  what  Cousin  Katherine  has 
found,  or  all  that  shall  be  a  shut  book  to  her  forever.  Even  if 
discipline  and  denial  make  her  a  little  unhappy,  poor  thing,. 
that's  far  better  than  letting  her  decline  upon  the  second 
best." 

Honoria's  voice  was  full  and  sweet.  She  spoke  from  out  the 
deep  places  of  her  thought.  Her  whole  aspect  was  instinct  with 
a  calm  and  reasoned  enthusiasm.  And,  looking  upon  her,  it 
became  Ludovic  Quayle's  turn  to  find  the  evening  wind  some- 
what bleak  and  barren.  It  struck  chill,  and  he  turned  away 
and  moved  westwards  towards  the  sunset.  But  the  rose-crimson 
splendours  had  become  faint  and  frail ;  while  the  indigo  cloud 
had  gathered  into  long,  horizontal  lines  as  of  dusky  smoke,  so 
that  the  remaining  brightness  was  seen  as  through  prison  bars. 
A  sadness,  indeed,  seemed  to  hold  the  west,  even  greater  than 
that  which  held  the  east,  since  it  was  a  sadness  not  of  beauty 
unborn,  but  of  beauty  dead.  And  this  struck  home  to  the  young 
man.  He  did  not  care  to  speak.  Miss  St.  Quentin  walked  beside 
him  in  silence,  for  a  time.  When  at  last  she  spoke  it  was  very 
gently. 

"  Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  she  pleaded.  *'  I  like 
you  so  much  that — that  I'd  give  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to 
think  less  of  my  duty  to  the  tiresome  woman  in  me." 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  too,"  he  declared,  regardless  of 
grammar. 

"  liut  I'm  not  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  dear  Mr.  Quayle," 
she  protested  presently. 

"But  I,  unfortunately,  have  no  use  for  any  other,"  he 
returned. 

"  Ah,  you  distress  me  !  "  Honoria  cried. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  make  me  superabundantly 
cheerful." 

Just  then  the  far-away  shriek  of  a  locomotive  and  dull 
thunder  of  an  approaching  train.  Mr.  Quayle  looked  once  more 
towards  the  western  horizon. 

"  Mere's  the  Paris-express  !  "  he  said.  "  We  must  be  off  if  we 
mean  to  get  round  before  our  horse-box  is  shunted." 

He  jumped  down  on  to  the  permanent  way.  Miss  St.  Quentin 
followed  him,  and  the  two  ran  helter-skelter  across  the  many 
lines  of  metals,  in  the  direction  (;f  the  Culoz-Ceneva-Bale  siding. 
That  somewhat  childish  and  undignified  proceeding  ministered 
to  the  restoration  of  good-fellowshii). 

"Great  passions  are  rare,"  Mr.  Quayle  said,  laughing  a  little. 
His  circulation   was   agreeably   quickened.       How  surprisingly 


500  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

fast  this  nymph-like  creature  could  get  over  the  ground,  and  that 
gracefully,  moreover,  rather  in  the  style  of  a  lissome,  long-limbed 
youth  than  in  that  of  a  woman  ! 

"Rare?  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  the  words  coming  short 
and  sharply.  "  But  I  accept  the  risk.  A  thousand  to  one  the 
book  remains  shut  forever." 

"  And  I,  meanwhile,  am  not  too  proud  to  pass  the  time  of 
day  with  the  second  best,  and  take  refuge  in  the  accumulated 
patience  of  innumerable  asses." 

And,  behind  them,  the  express  train  thundered  into  the 
station. 


CHAPTP:!!  II 

TELUXG    now,    ONOK    AGAIN,    KATHKRINE    (PALMARY    LOOKKD    ON 

HKll    SON 

THE  bulletin  received  at  Turin  was  sufficiently  disquieting. 
Richard  had  had  a  relapse.  And  when  at  Bologna,  just 
as  the  train  was  starting,  General  Ormiston  entered  the  compart- 
ment occupied  by  the  two  ladies,  there  was  that  in  his  manner 
which  made  Miss  St.  Quentin  lay  aside  the  magazine  she  was 
reading  and,  rising  silently  from  her  place  opposite  Lady  Calmady, 
go  out  on  to  the  narrow  passage-way  of  the  long  sleeping-car. 
She  was  very  close  to  the  elder  woman  in  the  bonds  of  a  dear 
and  intimate  friendship,  yet  hardly  close  enough,  so  she  judged, 
to  intrude  her  presence  if  evil-tidings  were  to  be  told.  A  man 
going  into  battle  might  look,  so  she  thought,  as  Roger  Ormiston 
looked  now — very  stern  and  strained.  It  was  more  fitting  to  leave 
the  brother  and  sister  alone  together  for  a  little  space. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  passage-way  the  servants  were  grouped 
— Clara,  comely  of  face  and  of  person,  neat  notwithstanding 
the  demoralisation  of  feminine  attire  incident  to  prolonged 
travel.  Winter,  the  Brockhurst  butler,  clean-shaven,  grey- 
headed, suggestive  of  a  distinguished  Anglican  ecclesiastic  in 
mufti.  Miss  St.  Quentin's  lady's-maid,  P'aulstich  by  name,  a 
North-Country  woman,  angular  of  person  and  of  bearing,  loyal  of 
heart.  Zimmermann,  the  colossal  German-Swiss  courier,  with  his 
square,  yellow  beard  and  hair  en  brosse. — An  air  of  discourage- 
ment pervaded  the  party,  involving  even  the  polyglot  conductor 
of  the  zuag07i-lits,  a  small,  cjuick,  sandy-complexioned,  young 
fellow  of  uncertain  nationality,  with  a  gold  band  round  his  peaked 
cap.     He  respected  this  family  which  could  afford  to  take  a 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  501 

private  railway-carriage  half  across  Europe,  He  shared  their 
anxieties.  And  these  were  evidently  great.  Clara  wept.  The 
old  butler's  mouth  twitched,  and  his  slightly  pendulous  cheeks 
quivered.  The  door  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  car  was  set  wide 
open.  Ludovic  Quayie  stood  upon  the  little,  iron  balcony 
smoking.  His  feet  were  planted  far  apart,  yet  his  tall  figure 
swayed  and  curtseyed  queerly  as  the  heavy  carriage  bumped  and 
rattled  across  the  points.  High  walls,  overtopped  by  the  dark 
spires  of  cypresses,  overhung  by  radiant  wealth  of  lilac  wistaria, 
and  of  roses,  red,  yellow,  and  white,  reeled  away  in  the  keen  sun- 
shine to  left  and  right.  Then,  clearing  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
the  train  roared  southward  across  the  fair,  Italian  landscape 
beneath  the  pellucid,  blue  vault  of  the  fair,  Italian  sky.  And  to 
Honoria  there  was  something  of  heartlessness  in  all  that  fair 
outward  prospect.  Here,  in  Italy,  the  ancient  gods  reigned  still 
surely,  the  gods  who  are  careless  of  human  woe. 

"  Is  there  bad  news,  Winter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Bates  telegraphs  to  the  General  that  it  would  be  well 
her  ladyship  should  be  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"  It'll  kill  my  lady.  For  certain  sure  it  will  kill  her !  She 
never  could  be  expected  to  stand  up  against  that.  And  just  as 
she  was  getting  round  from  her  own  illness  so  nicely  too  " — 

Audibly  Clara  wept.  Her  tears  so  affected  the  sandy-com- 
plexioned,  polyglot  conductor  that  he  retired  into  his  little  pantry 
and  made  a  most  unholy  clattering  among  the  plates  and  knives 
and  forks.  Honoria  put  her  hand  upon  the  sobbing  woman's 
shoulder  and  drew  her  into  the  comparative  privacy  of  the 
adjoining  compartment,  rendered  not  a  little  inaccessible  by  a 
multiplicity  of  rugs,  travelling-bags,  and  hand-luggage. 

"Come,  sit  down,  Clara,"  she  said.  "Have  your  cry  out. 
And  then  pull  yourself  together.  Remember  Lady  Calmady  will 
want  just  all  you  can  do  for  her  if  .Sir  Richard — if" — and  Honoria 
was  aware  somehow  of  a  sharp  catch  in  her  throat — "  if  he  does 
not  live." 

And,  meanwhile,  Roger  Ormiston,  now  in  sober  and  dignified 
middle-age,  found  himself  called  upon  to  repeat  that  rather 
sinister  experience  of  his  hot  and  rackety  youth,  and,  as  he 
put  it  bitterly,  "act  hangman  to  his  own  sister."  For,  as  he 
approached  her,  Katherine,  leaning  back  against  the  piled-up 
cushions  in  the  corner  of  the  railway  carriage,  suddenly  sat  bolt- 
upright,  stretching  out  her  hands  in  swift  fear  and  entreaty,  as  in 
the  state-bedroom  at  Brockhurst  nine-and-twenty  years  ago. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  Roger  !  "  she  cried,  "  tell  me,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  final  as  yet,  thank  God,"  he  answered.     "  But  it 


502  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

would  be  cruel  to  keep  the  truth  from  you,  Kitty,  and  let  you 
buoy  yourself  up  with  Hxlse  ho{)es." 

"  He  is  worse,"  Katherine  said. 

"  Yes,  he  is  worse.  He  is  a  good  deal  weaker.  I'm  afraid 
the  state  of  affairs  has  become  very  grave.  Evidently  they  are 
apprehensive  as  to  what  turn  the  fever  may  take  in  the  course 
•of  the  next  twelve  hours." 

Katherine  bowed  herself  together  as  though  smitten  by  sharp 
pain.  Then  she  looked  at  him  hurriedly,  fresh  alarms  assaulting 
her. 

"  You  are  not  trying  to  soften  the  blow  to  me  ?  You  are  not 
keeping  anything  back  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  dear  Kitty.  There — see — read  it  for 
yourself.  I  telegraphed  twice,  so  as  to  have  the  latest  news. 
Here's  the  last  reply." 

Ormiston  unfolded  the  blue  paper,  crossed  by  white  strips 
of  printed  matter,  and  laid  it  upon  her  lap.  And  as  he  did  so 
it  struck  him,  aggravating  his  sense  of  sinister  repetition,  that 
she  had  on  the  same  rings  and  bracelets  as  on  that  former 
occasion,  and  that  she  wore  stone-grey  silk  too — a  long 
travelling  sacque,  lined  and  bordered  with  soft  fur.  It  rustled 
as  she  moved.  A  coif  of  black  lace  covered  her  upturned  hair, 
framed  her  sweet  face,  and  was  tied  soberly  under  her  chin. 
And,  looking  upon  her,  Ormiston  yearned  in  spirit  over  this 
beautiful  woman  who  had  borne  such  grievous  sorrows,  and  who, 
as  he  feared,  had  sorrow  yet  more  grievous  still  to  bear. — "  For 
ten  to  one  the  boy  won't  pull  through — he  won't  pull  through," 
he  said  to  himself.  "Poor,  dear  fellow,  he's  nothing  left  to 
fall  back  upon.  He's  lived  too  hard."  And  then  he  took 
himself  remorsefully  to  task,  asking  himself  whether,  among  the 
pleasures  and  ambitions  and  successes  of  his  own  career,  he 
had  been  quite  faithful  to  the  dead,  and  quite  watchful  enough 
over  the  now  dying,  Richard  Calmady  ?  He  reproached  himself, 
for,  when  Death  stands  at  the  gate,  conscience  grows  very 
sensitive  regarding  any  lapses,  real  or  imagined,  of  duty  towards 
those  for  w^hom  that  dread  ambassador  waits. 

Twice  Katherine  read  the  telegram,  weighing  each  word  of 
it.     Then  she  gave  the  blue  paper  back  to  her  brother. 

"  I  will  ask  you  all  to  let  me  be  alone  for  a  little  while, 
dear  Roger,"  she  said.  "Tell  Honoria,  tell  Ludovic,  tell  my 
l^ood  Clara.  I  must  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  for  a  time,  so 
that,  when  I  turn  it  upon  you  dear  people  again,  it  may  not  be 
too  unlovely." 

And  Ormiston   bent  his  head   and   kissed   her   hand,   and 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  503 

went  out,  dosing  the  door  behind  him  ;  while  the  train  roared 
southward,  through  the  afternoon  sunshine,  southward  towards 
Chiusi  and  Rome. 

And  Katherine  Calmady  sat  quietly  amid  the  noise  and 
violent,  on-rushing  movement,  squaring  accounts  with  her  own 
motherhood.  That  she  might  never  see  Dickie  again,  she 
herself  dying,  was  an  idea  which  had  grown  not  unfamiliar  to 
her  during  these  last  sad  years.  But  that  she  should  survive, 
only  to  see  Dickie  dead,  was  a  new  idea,  and  one  which  joined 
hands  with  despair,  since  it  constituted  a  conclusion  big  with 
the  anguish  of  failure  to  the  tragedy  of  their  relation,  hers  arid 
his.  Her  whole  sense  of  justice,  of  fitness,  rebelled  under  it, 
rebelled  against  it.  She  implored  a  space,  however  brief,  of 
reconciliation  and  reunion  before  the  supreme  farewell  was 
said.  But  it  had  become  natural  to  Katherine's  mind,  so  un- 
sparingly self-trained  in  humble  obedience  to  the  divine  ordering, 
not  to  stay  in  the  destructive,  but  pass  on  to  the  constructive 
stage.  She  would  not  indulge  herself  with  rebellion,  but  rather 
fashion  her  thought  without  delay  to  that  which  should  make 
for  inward  peace.  And  so  now,  turning  her  eyes,  in  thought, 
from  the  present,  she  went  back  on  the  baby-love,  the  child- 
love  which,  notwithstanding  the  abiding  smart  of  Richard's 
deformity,  had  been  so  very  exquisite  to  her.  Upon  the  happier 
side  of  all  that  she  had  not  dared  to  dwell  during  this  prolonged 
period  of  estrangement.  It  was  too  poignant,  too  deep-seated 
in  the  springs  of  hur  physical  being.  To  dwell  on  it  enervated 
and  unnerved  her.  But  now,  Richard  the  grown  man  dying, 
she  gave  herself  back  to  Richard  the  little  child.  It  solaced 
her  to  do  so.  Then  he  had  been  wholly  hers.  And  he  was 
wholly  hers  still,  in  respect  of  that  early  time.  The  man  she 
had  lost,  so  it  seemed,  how  far  through  fault  of  her  own  she 
could  not  tell.  And  just  now  she  refused  to  analyse  all  that. 
Upon  all  which  strengthened  endurance,  upon  gracious  memories 
engendering  thankfulness,  could  her  mind  alone  profitably  be 
fixed.  And  so,  as  the  train  roared  southward,  and  the  sun 
declined  and  the  swift  dusk  spread  its  mantle  over  the  face  of 
the  classic  landscape,  Katherine  cradled  a  phantom  baby  on  htr 
knee,  and  sat  in  the  oriel-window  of  the  Chaijcl-Rooni,  at  Brock- 
hurst,  with  the  phantom  of  her  boy  beside  her,  while  she  told 
him  old-time  legends  of  war,  and  of  high  endeavour,  and  of  gal- 
lant adventure,  watching  the  light  dance  in  his  eyes  as  her  words 
awoke  in  him  emulation  of  those  masters  of  noble  deeds  whose 
exploits  she  recounted.  And  in  this  she  found  comfort,  and 
a  chastened  calm.     So  that,  when  at  length  General  Ormiston — 


504  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

incited  thereto  by  the  faithful  Clara,  who  j)rotested  that  her 
ladyship  must  and  should  dine — returned  to  her,  he  found  her 
storm-tossed  no  longer,  but  trantjuil  in  expression  and  solicitous 
for  the  comfort  of  others.  She  had  conquered  nature  by  grace, 
— conquered,  in  that  she  had  compelled  herself  to  unqualified 
submission.  If  this  cup  might  not  pass  from  her,  still  would 
she  praise  Almighty  God  and  bless  His  Holy  Name,  asking  not 
that  her  own,  but  His  will,  be  done. 

It  followed  that  the  evening,  spent  in  that  strangely  noisy, 
oscillating,  onward-rushing  dwelling-place  of  a  railway-carriage, 
was  not  without  a  certain  subdued  brightness  of  intercourse  and 
conversation.  Katherine  was  neither  preoccupied  nor  distrait,  nor 
unamused  even  by  the  small  accidents  and  absurdities  of  travel. 
Later,  while  preparations  were  being  made  by  the  servants  for 
the  coming  night,  she  went  out,  with  the  two  gentlemen  and 
Honoria  St.  Quentin,  on  to  the  iron  platform  at  the  rear  of  the 
swaying  car,  and  stood  there  under  the  stars.  The  mystery  of 
these  last,  and  of  the  dimly  discerned  and  sleeping  land,  offered 
penetrating  contrast  to  the  sleeplessness  of  the  hurrying  train 
with  its  long,  sinuous  line  of  lighted  windows,  and  to  the 
sleeplessness  of  her  own  heart.  The  fret  of  human  life  is  but 
as  a  little  island  in  the  great  ocean  of  eternal  peace — so  she  told 
herself — and  then  bade  that  sleepless  heart  of  hers  both  still 
its  passionate  beating  and  take  courage.  And  when,  at  length, 
she  was  alone,  and  lay  down  in  her  narrow  berth,  peace  and 
thankfulness  remained  with  Katherine.  The  care  and  affection 
of  brother,  friends,  and  servants,  were  very  grateful  to  her,  so 
that  she  composed  herself  to  rest  whether  slumber  was  granted 
her  or  not.  The  event  was  in  the  hands  of  God — that  surely 
was  enough. 

And  in  the  dawn,  reaching  Rome,  the  news  was  so  far 
better  that  it  was  not  worse.  Richard  lived.  And  when,  some 
seven  hours  later,  the  train  steamed  into  Naples  station,  and 
Bates,  the  house-steward — the  marks  of  haste  and  keen  anxiety 
upon  him — pushed  his  way  up  to  the  carriage  door,  he  could 
report  there  was  this  amount  of  hope  even  yet,  that  Richard 
still  lived,  though  his  strength  was  as  that  of  an  infant  and 
whether  it  would  wax  or  wane  wholly  none  as  yet  could 
say. 

"  Then  we  are  in  time.  Bates  ? "  Lady  Calmady  had  asked, 
desiring  further  assurance. 

"  I  hope  so,  my  lady.  But  I  would  advise  your  coming  as 
quickly  as  possible." 

"  Is  he  conscious  ?  " 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  50? 

"He  knew  Captain  Vanstone  this  morning,  mv  lady,  just 
before  I  left." 

The  man-servant  shouldered  the  crowd  aside  unceremoniously, 
so  as  to  force  a  passage  for  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Her  ladyship  should  go  up  to  the  villa  at  once,  sir,"  he 
said  to  General  Ormiston.  "  I  had  better  accompany  her.  I 
will  leave  Andrews  to  make  all  arrangements  here.  The  carriage 
is  waiting."' 

Then,  Honoria  beside  her,  Katherine  was  aware  of  the 
hot  glare  and  hard  shadow,  the  grind  and  clatter,  the  violent 
colour,  the  strident  vivacity  of  the  Neapolitan  streets,  as  with 
voice  and  whip,  Garcia  sprung  the  handsome,  long-tailed,  black 
horses  up  the  steep  ascent.  This,  followed  by  the  impression 
of  a  cool,  spacious,  and  lofty  interior,  of  mild,  diffused  light,  of 
pale,  marble  floors  and  stairways,  of  rich  hangings  and  dis- 
tinguished objects  of  art,  of  the  soft,  green  gloom  of  ilex  and 
myrtle,  the  languid  drip  of  fountains.  And  this  last  served 
to  mark,  as  with  raised  finger,  the  hush  —  bland,  yet  very 
imperative — which  held  all  the  place.  After  the  ceaseless  jar 
and  tumult  of  that  many-days'  journey,  here,  up  at  the  villa,  it 
seemed  as  though  urgency  were  absurd,  hot  haste  of  affection 
a  little  vulgar,  a  little  contemptible,  all  was  so  composed,  so 
very  urbane. 

And  that  urbanity  so  bland,  so,  in  a  way,  supercilious, 
affected  Honoria  St.  (^uentin  unpleasantly.  She  was  taken  with 
unreasoning  dislike  of  the  place,  finding  something  malign, 
trenching  on  cruelty  even,  in  its  exalted  serenity,  its  un- 
changing, inaccessible,  masklike  smile.  Very  certainly  the 
ancient  gods  held  court  here  yet,  the  gods  who  are  careless  of 
human  tears,  heedless  of  human  woe  !  And  she  looked  anxiously 
at  I>ady  Calmady,  penetrated  by  fear  that  the  latter  was 
about  to  be  exposed  to  some  insidious  danger,  to  come  into 
conflict  with  influences  antagonistic  and  subtly  evil.  Wicked 
deeds  had  been  committed  in  this  fair  place,  wicked  designs 
nourished  and  brought  to  fruition  here.  She  was  convinced  of 
that.  Was  convinced  further  that  those  designs  had  connection 
with  and  had  been  directed  against  Lady  Calmady.  The  thought  of 
Helen  de  Vallorbcs,  exf}uisite  and  vicious, — as  she  now  reluctantly 
admitted  her  to  be — was  very  present  to  her.  As  far  as  she 
knew,  it  was  quite  a  number  of  years  since  Helen  had  set  foot 
in  the  villa.  Yet  it  spoke  of  her,  spoke  of  the  more  dangerous 
aspects  of  her  nature. — Honoria  sighed  over  her  friend.  Helen 
had  gone,  latterly,  very  much  to  the  bad,  she  feared.  And  as  all 
this  passed  rapidly  through  her  mind  it  provoked  all  her  knight- 


5o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

errantry,  raising  a  strongly  protective  spirit  in  her.  She 
questioned  just  how  much  active  care  she  might  take  of  Lady 
Calmady  without  indiscretion  of  over-forwardness. 

But  even  while  she  thus  debated,  opportunity  of  action  was 
lost.  Quietly,  a  great  simplicity  and  singleness  of  purpose  in 
her  demeanour,  without  word  spoken,  without  looking  back, 
Katherine  followed  the  house-steward  across  the  cool,  spacious 
hall,  through  a  doorway  and  out  of  sight. 

And  that  singleness  of  purpose,  so  discernible  in  her  outward 
demeanour,  possessed  Katherine's  being  throughout.  She  was  as 
one  who  walks  in  sleep,  pushed  by  blind  impulse.  She  was  not 
conscious  of  herself,  not  conscious  of  joy  or  fear,  or  any  emotion. 
She  moved  forward  dumbly,  and  without  volition,  towards  the 
event.  Her  senses  were  confused  by  this  transition  to  stillness 
from  noise,  by  the  immobility  of  all  surrounding  objects  after  the 
reeling  landscape  on  either  hand  the  swaying  train,  by  the  bland 
and  tempered  light  after  the  harsh  contrasts  of  glare  and  darkness 
so  constantly  offered  to  her  vision  of  late.  She  was  dazed  and 
faint,  moreover,  so  that  her  knees  trembled.  Her  sensibility,  her 
powers  of  realisation  and  of  sympathy,  were  for  the  time  being 
atrophied. 

The  house-steward  ushered  her  into  a  large,  square  room. 
The  low,  darkly-painted,  vaulted  ceiling  of  it  produced  a 
cavernous  effect.  An  orderly  disorder  prevailed,  and  a  some- 
what mournful  dimness  of  closed,  green-slatted  shutters  and 
half-drawn  curtains.  The  furniture,  costly  in  fact,  but  dwarfed, 
in  some  cases  actually  legless,  was  ranged  against  the  scjuat, 
carven  bookcases  that  lined  the  walls  leaving  the  middle  of  the 
room  vacant,  save  for  a  low,  narrow  camp-bed.  The  bed  stood 
at  right  angles  to  the  door  by  which  Katherine  entered,  the  head 
of  it  towards  the  shuttered,  heavily-draped  windows,  the  foot 
towards  the  inside  wall  of  the  room.  At  the  bedside  a  man 
knelt  on  one  knee;  and  his  appearance  aroused,  in  a  degree, 
Katherine's  dormant  powers  of  observation.  He  had  a  short, 
crisp,  black  beard  and  crisp,  black  hair.  He  was  alert  and 
energetic  of  face  and  figure,  a  man  of  dare-devil,  humorous,  yet 
kindly  eyes.  He  wore  a  blue  serge  suit  with  brass  buttons  to  it. 
He  was  in  his  stocking-feet.  The  wristbands  and  turn-down 
collar  of  his  white  shirt  were  immaculate.  Katherine,  lost, 
trembling,  the  support  of  the  habitual  taken  from  her,  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land,  liked  the  man.  He  appeared  so  admirable  an 
example  of  physical  health.  He  inspired  her  with  confidence, 
his  presence  seeming  to  carry  with  it  assurance  of  that  which 
is  wholesome,  normal,  and  sane.      He  glanced  at  her  sharply, 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  507 

not  without  hint  of  criticism,  and  of  command.  Authoritatively 
he  signed  to  her  to  remain  silent,  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  and  well  clear  of  it,  out  of  sight.  Katherine  did  not  resent 
this.     She  obeyed. 

And  standing  thus,  rallying  her  will  to  conscious  effort,  she 
looked  steadily,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  bed  and  that  which  lay 
upon  it.  And  so  doing  she  could  hardly  save  herself  from  falling, 
since  she  saw  there  precisely  that  which  the  shape  of  the  room  and 
the  disarray  of  it,  along  with  vacant  space  and  the  low  camp-bed 
in  the  centre  of  that  space,  had  foretold  —  notwithstanding  her 
dumbness  of  feeling,  deadness  of  sympathy — she  most  assuredly 
must  see. — All  these  last  four-and-twenty  hours  she  had  solaced 
herself  with  the  phantom  society  of  Dickie  the  baby-child,  of 
Dickie  the  eager  boy,  curious  of  many  things.  But  here  was  one 
different  from  both  these.  Different,  too,  from  the  young  man, 
tremendous  in  arrogance,  and  in  revolt  against  the  indignity  put 
on  him  by  fate,  from  whom  she  had  parted  in  such  anguish  of  spirit 
nearly  five  years  back.  For,  in  good  truth,  she  saw  now,  not 
Richard  Calmady  her  son,  her  anxious  charge,  whose  debtor — in 
that  she  had  brought  him  into  life  disabled — she  held  herself 
eternally  to  be ;  but  Richard  Calmady  her  husband,  the  desire 
of  her  eyes,  the  glory  of  her  youth — saw  him,  worn  by  suffer- 
ing, disfigured  by  unsightly  growth  of  beard,  pallid,  racked  by 
mortal  weakness,  the  sheet  expressing  the  broad  curve  of  his 
chest,  the  sheet  and  light  blanket  disclosing  the  fact  of  that 
hideous  maiming  he  had  sustained  —  saw  him  now,  as  on  the 
night  he  died. 

Captain  ^'anstone,  meanwhile,  reassured  as  to  the  new- 
comer's discretion  and  docility,  applied  his  mind  to  his  patient. 

"See  here,  sir,"  he  said,  banteringly  yet  tenderly,  "we  were 
just  getting  along  first-rate  with  these  uncommonly  mixed  liquors. 
You  mustn't  cry  off  again.  Sir  Richard." 

He  slipped  his  arm  under  the  pillows,  dexterously  raising  the 
young  man's  head,  and  held  the  cup  lo  his  lips. 

"  My  dear,  good  fellow,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  be,"  Dickie 
murmured  faintly. 

He  spoke  courteously,  yet  there  were  tears  in  his  voice  for 
very  weakness.  And,  hearing  him,  it  was  as  though  something 
stirred  within  Katherine  which  had  long  been  bound  by  bitter- 
ness of  heavy  frost. 

Vanstone  shook  his  head. — "Very  sorry,  Sir  Richard,"  he 
replied.     "  Daren't  let  you  off.     I've  got  my  orders,  you  see." 

The  bold  and  kindly  eyes  had  a  certain  magnetic  efficacy  of 
compulsion    in    them.     The   sick    man   drank,   swallowed    with 


5oS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

difficulty,  yet  drank  again.  Then  he  lay  back,  for  a  while,  his 
eyes  closed,  resting.  And  Katherine  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  out  of  sight,  waiting  till  her  time  should  come.  She 
folded  her  hands  high  upon  her  bosom.  Her  thought  remained 
inarticulate,  yet  she  began  to  understand  that  which  she  had 
striven  so  sternly  to  uproot,  that  which  she  had  supposed  she 
had  extirpated,  still  remained  with  her.  Once  more,  with  a 
terror  of  joyful  amazement,  she  began  to  scale  the  height  and 
sound  the  depth  of  human  love. 

Presently  the  voice — whether  that  of  husband  or  of  son  she 
did  not  stay  to  discriminate — it  gripped  her  very  vitals — reached 
her  from  the  bed.     She  fancied  it  rang  a  little  stronger. 

"  It  is  contemptibly  futile,  and  therefore  conspicuously  in 
keeping  with  the  rest,  to  have  taken  all  this  trouble  about  dying 
only,  in  the  end,  to  sneak  back." 

"  Oh  !  well,  sir,  after  all  you're  not  so  very  far  on  the  return 
voyage  yet,"  Vanstone  put  in  consolingly. 

Richard  opened  his  eyes.  Katherine's  vision  was  blurred. 
She  could  not  see  very  clearly,  but  she  fancied  he  smiled. 

"  Yes,  with  luck,  I  may  still  give  you  all  the  slip,"  he  said. 

*'  Now,  a  little  more,  sir,  please.     Yes,  you  can  if  you  try." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  about  this  business  of  sneaking 
back.     I  don't  want  to  live." 

"  Very  likely  not.  But  I'm  very  much  mistaken  if  you  want 
to  die  like  a  cat,  in  a  cupboard,  here  ashore.  Mend  enough  to 
get  away  on  board  the  yacht  to  sea.  There'll  be  time  enough 
then  to  argue  the  question  out,  sir.  Half  a  mile  of  blue  water 
under  your  feet  sends  up  the  value  of  life  most  considerably." 

As  he  spoke  the  sailor  looked  at  Katherine  Calmady.  His 
glance  enjoined  caution,  yet  conveyed  encouragement. 

"  Here,  take  down  the  rest  of  it.  Sir  Richard,"  he  said 
persuasively.  "  Then  I  swear  I  won't  plague  you  any  more  for 
a  good  hour." 

Again  he  raised  the  sick  man  dexterously,  and  as  he  did  so 
Katherine  observed  that  a  purple  scar,  as  of  a  but  newly  healed 
wound,  ran  right  across  Dickie's  cheek  from  below  the  left  eye 
to  the  turn  of  the  lower  jaw.  And  the  sight  of  it  moved  her 
strangely,  loosening  the  last  of  that  binding  as  of  frost.  A  swift 
madness  of  anger  against  whoso  had  inflicted  that  ugly  hurt  arose 
in  Katherine ;  while  her  studied  resignation,  her  strained  passivity 
of  mental  attitude,  went  down  before  a  passion  of  violent  and 
primitive  emotion.  The  spirit  of  battle  became  dominant  in  her, 
along  with  an  immense  necessity  of  loving  and  of  being  loved. 
Tender  phantoms  of  past  joy  ceased  to  solace.     The  actual,  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  509 

concrete,  the  immediate,  compelled  her  with  a  certain  splendour 
of  demand.  Katherine  appeared  to  grow  taller,  more  regal  of 
presence.  The  noble  energy  of  youth  and  its  limitless  generosity 
returned  to  her.  Instinctively  she  unfastened  her  pelisse  at  the 
throat,  took  the  lace  coif  from  her  head,  letting  it  fall  to  the 
ground,  and  moved  nearer. 

Richard  pushed  the  cup  away  from  his  lips. 

"  There's  someone  in  the  room,  Vanstone  !  "  he  said,  his  voice 
harsh  with  anger.  "  Some  woman — I  heard  her  dress.  I  told 
you  all — whatever  happened — I  would  have  no  woman  here." 

But  Katherine,  undismayed,  came  straight  on  to  the  bed- 
side. She  loved.  She  would  not  be  gainsaid.  With  the 
whole  force  of  her  nature  she  refused  denial  of  that  love. — For 
a  brief  space  Richard  looked  at  her,  his  face  ghastly  and  rigid 
as  that  of  a  corpse.  Then  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed,  stretch- 
ing out  both  arms,  with  a  hoarse  cry  that  tore  at  his  throat  and 
shuddered  through  all  his  frame.  And,  as  he  would  have  fallen 
for^vard,  exhausted  by  the  effort  to  reach  her  and  the  lovely 
shelter  of  her,  Katherine  caught  and,  kneeling,  held  him,  his 
poor  hands  clutching  impotently  at  her  shoulders,  his  head 
sinking  upon  her  breast.  While,  in  that  embrace,  not  only 
all  the  motherhood  in  her  leapt  up  to  claim  the  sonship  in  him, 
but  all  the  womanhood  in  her  leapt  up  to  claim  the  manhood  in 
him,  thereby  making  the  broken  circle  of  her  being  once  more 
wholly  perfect  and  complete,  so  that  carrying  the  whole  dear 
burden  of  his  fever-wasted  body  in  her  encircling  arms  and  upon 
her  breast,  even  as  she  had  carried,  long  since,  that  dear  fruit  of 
love,  the  unborn  babe,  within  her  womb,  Katherine  was  taken 
with  a  very  ecstasy  and  rapture  of  content. 

"  My  beloved  is  mine — is  mine  !  "  she  cried, — "  and  I  am  his.' 

Captain  Vanstone  was  on  his  feet  and  half  way  across  the 
room. 

"  Man  alive,  but  it  hurts  like  merry  hell !  "  he  said,  as  he  softly 
closed  the  door. 


(  lIAl'TKll  III 

CON'CKRNINi;    A    SI'IIIIT    1\    J-JtISON 

UPON  those  moments  of  rapture  followed  days  of  trembling, 
during  which  the  sands  of  Richard  Calmady's  life  ran 
very  low,  and  his  brain  wandered  in  delirium,  and  he  spoke 
unwittingly  of  many  matters  of  which  it  was   unprofitable   to 


510  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

hear.  Periods  of  unconsciousness,  when  he  lay  as  one  dead ; 
periods  of  incessant  utterance — now  violent  in  unavailing  repu- 
diation, now  harsh  with  unavailing  remorse — alternated.  And,  at 
this  juncture,  much  of  Lady  (^alniady's  former  very  valiant  pride 
asserted  itself.  In  tender  jealousy  for  the  honour  of  her  beloved 
one  she  shut  the  door  of  that  sick-room,  of  sinister  aspect,  against 
brother  and  friend,  and  even  against  the  faithful  Clara.  None 
should  see  or  hear  Richard  in  his  present  alienation  and  abjec- 
tion, save  herself  and  those  who  had  hitherto  ministered  to  him. 
He  should  regain  a  measure,  at  least,  of  his  old  distinction  and 
beauty  before  any,  beyond  these,  looked  on  his  face.  And  so  his 
own  men-servants  —Captain  Vanstone,  capable,  humorous,  and 
alert — and  Price,  the  red-headed,  Welsh  first  mate,  of  varied  and 
voluminous  gift  of  invective — continued  to  nurse  him.  These 
men  loved  him.  They  would  be  loyal  in  silence,  since,  what- 
ever his  lapses,  Dickie  was  and  always  had  been,  as  Katherine 
reflected,  among  the  number  of  those  happily-endowed  persons 
who  triumphantly  give  the  lie  to  the  cynical  saying  that  "  no  man 
is  a  hero  to  his  valet  de  chavibre." 

To  herself  Katherine  reserved  the  right  to  enter  that  sinister 
sick-room  whenever  she  pleased,  and  to  sit  by  the  bedside,  waiting 
for  the  moment — should  it  ever  come — when  Richard  would  again 
recognise  her,  and  give  himself  to  her  again.  And  those  vigils 
proved  a  searching  enough  experience,  notwithstanding  her  long 
a[)prenticeship  to  service  of  sorrow — which  was  also  the  service 
of  her  son.  For,  in  the  mental  and  moral  nudity  of  delirium,  he 
made  strange  revelation,  not  only  of  acts  committed,  but  of 
inherent  tendencies  of  character  and  of  thought.  He  spoke, 
with  bewildering  inconsequence  and  intimacy,  of  incidents  and 
of  persons  with  whom  she  was  unacquainted,  causing  her  to 
follow  him — a  rather  brutal  pilgrimage — into  regions  where  the 
feet  of  women,  bred  and  nurtured  like  herself,  but  seldom  tread. 
He  spoke  of  persons  with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted  also, 
and  whose  names  arrested  her  attention  with  pathetic  signifi- 
cance, offering,  for  the  moment,  secure  standing  ground  amid 
tiie  shifting  quicksand  of  his  but-half-comprehended  words. 
He  spoke  of  Morabita,  the  famous  prif/ia  dontia,  and  of  gentle 
Mrs.  Chifney  down  at  the  Brockhurst  racing-stables.  He  grew 
heated  in  discussion  with  I>ord  Fallowfeild.  He  petted  little 
Lady  Constance  Quayle.  He  called  Camp,  coaxed  and  chaffed 
the  dog  merrily — whereat  Lady  f 'almady  rose  from  her  place  by 
the  bedside  and  stood  at  one  of  the  dim,  shuttered  windows  for  a 
while.  He  spoke  of  places,  too,  and  of  happenings  in  them,  from 
Westchurch  to  Constantinople,  from  a  nautch  at  Singapore  to  a 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  511 

countr)'  fair  at  Farley  Row.  But,  recurrent  through  all  his 
wanderings  were  allusions,  unsparing  in  revolt  and  in  self-abase- 
ment, to  a  woman  whom  he  had  loved  and  who  had  dealt  very 
vilely  with  him,  putting  some  unpardonable  shame  upon  him, 
and  to  a  man  whom  he  himself  had  very  basely  wronged.  The 
name,  neither  of  man  nor  woman,  did  Katherine  learn. — Madame 
de  Vallorbes'  name,  for  which  she  could  not  but  listen,  he  never 
mentioned,  nor  did  he  mention  her  own. — And  recurrent,  also, 
running  as  a  black  thread  through  all  his  speech,  was  lament,  not 
unmanly  but  very  terrible  to  hear  —  the  lament  of  a  creature, 
captive,  maimed,  imprisoned,  perpetually  striving,  perpetually  frus- 
trated in  the  effort  to  escape.  And,  noting  all  this,  Katherine  not 
only  divined  very  dark  and  evil  pages  in  the  history  of  her  beloved 
one ;  but  a  struggle  so  continuous  and  a  sorrow  so  abiding  that, 
in  her  estimation  at  all  events,  they  cancelled  and  expiated  the  dark- 
ness and  evil  of  those  same  pages.  While  the  mystery,  both  of 
wrong  done  and  sorrow  suffered,  so  wrought  upon  her  that, 
having,  in  the  first  ecstasy  of  recovered  human  love,  deserted 
and  depreciated  the  godward  love  a  little,  she  now  ran  back 
imploring  assurance  and  renewal  of  that  last,  in  all  penitence  and 
humility,  lest,  deprived  of  the  counsel  and  sure  support  of  it,  she 
should  fail  to  read  the  present  and  deal  with  the  future  aright — 
if,  indeed,  any  future  still  remained  for  that  beloved  one  other 
than  the  yawning  void  of  death  and  inscrutable  silence  of  the 
grave ! 

The  better  part  of  a  week  passed  thus ;  and  then,  one  fair 
morning,  Winter,  bringing  her  breakfast  to  the  ante-room  of  that 
same  sea-blue,  sea-green  bed-chamber — sometime  tenanted  by 
Helen  de  Vallorbes — disclosed  a  beaming  countenance. 

"  Mr.  Powell  wishes  me  to  inform  your  ladyship  that  Sir 
Richard  has  passed  a  very  good  night.  He  has  come  to  himself, 
my  lady,  and  has  asked  for  you." 

The  butler's  hands  shook  as  he  set  down  the  tray. 

"I  hope  your  ladyship  will  take  something  to  cat  before  you 
go  downstairs,"  he  added.  "  Mr.  Powell  told  Sir  Ricliard  that 
it  was  still  early ;  and  he  desired  that  on  no  consideration  should 
you  be  hurried." 

\Vhich  little  word  of  thoughtfulness  on  Dickie's  part  brought 
a  roundness  to  Katherinc's  cheek  and  a  soft  shining  into  her 
sweet  eyes  ;  so  that  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  sauntering  into  the 
room  just  then  with  her  habitual  lazy  grace,  stood  still  a  moment 
in  pleased  surprise  noting  the  change  in  her  friend's  appearance. 

"  Why,  dear  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  asked,  "  what's  happened  ? 
All's  right  with  the  world  ! " 


512  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Yes,"  Katherine  answered.  "  God's  very  much  in  1  lis 
heaven,  to-day,  and  all's  right  with  all  the  world,  because  things 
are  a  little  more  right  with  one  man  in  it. — That  is  the  woman's 
creed — always  has  been,  I  suppose,  and  I  rather  hope  always 
will  be.  It  is  frankly  personal  and  individualistic,  I  know. 
Possibly  it  is  reprehensibly  narrow-minded.  Still  I  doubt  if  she 
will  readily  find  another  which  makes  for  greater  happiness  or 
fulness  of  life.  You  don't  agree,  dearest,  I  know — nevertheless 
pour  out  my  tea  for  me,  will  you?  I  want  to  dispose  of  this 
necessary  evil  of  breakfast  with  all  possible  despatch.  Richard 
has  sent  for  me.     He  has  slept  and  is  awake." 

And  as  Miss  St.  Quentin  served  her  dear  friend,  she  pondered 
this  speech  curiously,  saying  to  herself : — "Yes,  I  did  right ;  though 
I  never  liked  Ludovic  Quayle  better  than  now,  and  never  liked 
any  other  man  as  well  as  I  like  Ludovic  Quayle.  But  that's  not 
enough.  I'm  getting  hold  of  the  appearance  of  the  thing,  but  I 
haven't  got  hold  of  the  thing  itself.  And  so  the  woman  in  me 
must  continue  to  be  kept  in  the  back  attic.  She  shall  be  denied 
.all  further  development.  She  shall  have  nothing  unless  she  can 
have  the  whole  of  it,  and  repeat  Cousin  Katherine's  creed  from 
her  heart." 

Richard  did  not  speak  when  Lady  Calmady  crossed  the 
room  and  sat  down  at  the  bedside.  He  barely  raised  his  eye- 
lids. But  he  felt  out  for  her  hand  across  the  surface  of  the 
sheet.  And  she  took  the  proffered  hand  in  both  hers  and  fell  to 
stroking  the  palm  of  it  with  her  finger-tips.  And  this  silent  greet- 
ing, and  confiding  contact  of  hand  with  hand,  was  to  her  exquisitely 
healing.  It  gave  an  assurance  of  nearness  and  acknowledged 
ownership,  more  satisfying  and  convincing  than  many  eloquent 
phrases  of  welcome.  And  so  she,  too,  remained  silent,  only 
indeed  permitting  herself,  for  a  little  while,  to  look  at  him,  lest  so 
doing  she  should  make  further  demand  upon  his  poor  quantity 
of  strength.  A  folding  screen  in  stamped  leather,  of  which  age 
had  tempered  the  ruby  and  gold  to  a  sober  harmony  of  tone, 
had  been  placed  round  the  head  of  the  bed,  throwing  this  last 
into  clear,  quiet  shadow.  The  bed  linen  was  fresh  and  smooth. 
Richard  had  made  a  little  toilet.  His  silk  shirt,  open  at  the 
throat,  was  also  fresh  and  smooth.  He  was  clean  shaven,  his 
hair  cropped  into  that  closely-fitting,  bright-brown  cap  of  curls. 
Katherine  perceived  that  his  beauty  had  begun  to  return  to  him, 
though  his  face  was  distressingly  worn  and  emaciated,  and  the 
long,  purplish  line  of  that  unexplained  scar  still  disfigured  his 
cheek.  His  hands  were  little  more  than  skin  and  bone.  In- 
deed  he  was  fragile,  she  feared,  as  any  person  could  be  who 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  513 

yet  had  life  in  him,  and  she  wondered,  rather  fearfully,  if  it  was 
yet  possible  to  build  up  that  life  again  into  any  joy  of  energy 
and  of  activity.  But  she  put  such  fears  from  her  as  unworthy. 
For  were  they  not  together,  he  and  she,  actually  and  consciously 
reunited  ?     That  was  sufficient.     The  rest  could  wait. 

And  to-day,  as  though  lending  encouragement  to  gracious 
hopes,  the  usually  gloomy  and  cavernous  room  had  taken  to 
itself  a  quite  generous  plenishing  of  air  and  light.  The  heavy 
curtains  were  drawn  aside.  The  casements  of  one  of  the  square, 
squat  windows  were  thrown  widely  open.  The  slatted  shutters 
without  were  partially  opened  likewise.  A  shaft  of  strong  sunshine 
slanted  in  and  lay,  like  a  bright  highway,  across  the  rich  colours 
of  the  Persian  carpet.  The  air  was  hot,  but  nimble  and  of 
a  vivacious  and  stimulating  quality.  It  fluttered  some  loose 
papers  on  the  writing-table  near  the  open  window.  It  fluttered 
the  delicate  laces  and  fine  muslin  frills  of  Lady  Calmady's 
morning-gown.  There  was  a  sprightly  mirthfulness  in  the  touch 
of  it  not  unpleasing  to  her.  For  it  seemed  to  speak  of  the 
ever-obtaining  youth,  the  incalculable  power  of  recuperation, 
the  immense  reconstructive  energy  resident  in  nature  and  the 
physical  domain.  And  there  was  comfort  in  that  thought.  She 
turned  her  eyes  from  the  bed  and  its  somewhat  sorrowful  burden 
— the  handsome  head,  the  broad,  though  angular,  shoulders,  the 
face,  immobile  and  masklike,  with  closed  eyelids  and  unsmiling 
lips,  reposing  upon  the  whiteness  of  the  pillows — and  fixed  them 
upon  that  radiant  space  of  outer  world  visible  between  the 
dark-framing  of  the  half-open  shutters.  Beyond  the  dazzling, 
black-and-white  chequer  of  the  terrace  and  balustrade,  they 
rested  on  the  cool  green  of  the  formal  garden,  the  glistering 
dome  and  slender  columns  of  the  pavilion  set  in  the  angle  of 
the  terminal  wall.  And  this  last  reminded  her  quaintly  of  that 
other  pavilion,  embroidered,  with  industry  of  innumerable  stitches, 
upon  the  curtains  of  the  state-bed  at  home — that  pavilion,  set 
for  rest  and  refreshment  in  the  midst  of  the  tangled  ways  of  the 
Forest  of  This  Life,  where  the  Hart  may  breathe  in  security,  fear- 
less of  Care,  the  pursuing  leopard,  which  follows  all  too  close 
behind. — Owing  to  her  position  and  the  sharp  drop  of  the 
hillside,  Naples  itself,  the  great  painted  city,  its  fine  buildings 
and  crowded  shipijing,  was  unseen ;  but,  far  away,  the  lofty 
I)romontory  of  Sorrento  sketched  itself  in  palest  lilac  upon  the 
azure  of  sea  and  sky. 

And,  as  Katharine  reasoned,  if  this  fair  prospect,  after  so  many 
ages  of  tumultuous  history  and  shock  of  calamitous  events, 
after  battle,  famine,  terror  of  earth(]uake  and  fire,  devastation  by 

33 


514  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

foul  disease,  could  still  recover  and  present  such  an  effect  of 
triumphant  youthfulness,  such  an  at  once  august  and  mirthful 
charm,  might  not  her  beloved  one,  lying  here  broken  in  health 
and  in  spirit,  likewise  regain  the  glory  of  his  manhood  and  the 
delight  of  it,  notwithstanding  present  weakness  and  mournful 
eclipse  ? — Yes,  it  would  come  right — come  right — Katherine  told 
herself,  thereby  making  one  of  those  magnificent  acts  of  faith 
which  go  so  far  to  produce  just  that  which  they  prophesy.  God 
could  not  have  created  so  complex  and  beautiful  a  creature,  and 
permitted  it  so  to  suffer,  save  to  the  fulfilment  of  some  clear 
purpose  which  would  very  surely  be  made  manifest  at  last.  God 
Almighty  should  be  justified  of  His  strange  handiwork  and  she 
of  her  love  before  the  whole  of  the  story  was  told. — And,  stirred 
by  these  thoughts,  and  by  the  fervour  of  her  own  pious  con- 
fidence, Katherine's  finger-tips  travelled  more  rapidly  over  the 
palm  of  that  outstretched  and  passive  hand.  Then,  on  a  sudden, 
she  became  aware  that  Richard  was  looking  fixedly  at  her.  She 
turned  her  head  proudly,  the  exaltation  of  a  living  faith  very 
present  in  her  smile. 

"You  are  the  same,"  he  said  slowly.  His  voice  was  low, 
toneless,  and  singularly  devoid  of  emotion. — "  Deliciously  the 
same.  You  are  just  as  lovely.  You  still  have  your  pretty  colour. 
You  are  hardly  a  day  older  " — 

He  paused,  still  regarding  her  fixedly. 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  got  on  one  of  those  white,  frilly  things  you 
used  to  wear.     I  always  liked  them." 

Katherine  could  not  speak  just  then.  This  sudden  and 
complete  intimacy  unnerved  her.  It  was  so  long  since  anyone 
had  spoken  to  her  thus.  It  was  very  dear  to  her,  yet  the  tone- 
less voice  gave  a  strange  unreality  to  the  tender  words. 

"  It's  a  matter  for  congratulation  that  you  are  the  same," 
Richard  went  on,  "  since  everything  else,  it  appears,  is  destined 
to  continue  the  same.  One  should  have  one  thing  it  is  agreeable 
to  contemplate  in  that  connection,  considering  the  vast  number 
of  things  altogether  the  reverse  of  agreeable  and  which  one 
fondly  hoped  one  was  rid  of  forever,  which  intrude  them- 
selves." 

He  shifted  himself  feebly  on  the  pillows,  and  the  flicker  of  a 
smile  crossed  his  face. 

"Poor,  dear  mother," he  said,  "you  see  again,  without  delay, 
the  old  bad  habit  of  grumbling  !  " 

"Grumble  on,  grumble  on,  my  best  beloved,"  Katherine 
murmured,  while  her  finger-tips  travelled  softly  over  his  palm. 

"Verily  and  indeed,  you  are  the  same!"  Richard  rejoined. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  515 

Once  more  he  lay  looking  full  at  her,  until  she  became  almost 
abashed  by  that  unswerving  scrutiny.  It  came  over  her  that 
the  plane  of  their  relation  had  changed.  Richard  was,  as  never 
heretofore,  her  equal,  a  man  grown. 

Suddenly  he  spoke, 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

And  so  far  had  Katherine's  thought  journeyed  from  the  past, 
so  absorbed  was  it  in  the  present,  that  she  answered,  sur- 
prised : — 

"My  dearest,  forgive  what?" 

"Injustice,  ingratitude,  desertion,"  Richard  said,  "neglect, 
systematic  cruelty.  There  is  plenty  to  swell  the  list.  All  I 
boasted  I  would  do  I  have  done — and  more." — His  voice,  until 
now  so  even  and  emotionless,  faltered  a  little.  "  I  have  sinned 
against  heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to 
be  called  thy  son." 

Katherine's  hand  closed  down  on  his  firmly. 

"  All  that,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  as  though  it  was  not 
and  never  had  been,"  she  answered. — "  So  much  for  judgment  on 
earth,  dearest. — While  in  heaven,  thank  God,  we  know  there  is 
more  joy  over  the  one  sinner  who  repents  than  over  the  ninety- 
and-nine  just  persons  who  need  no  repentance." 

"  And  you  really  believe  that  ? "  Richard  said,  speaking  half 
indulgently,  half  ironically,  as  if  to  a  child. 

"  Assuredly  I  believe  it." 

"  But  supposing  the  sinner  is  not  repentant,  but  merely 
cowed  ? " — Richard  straightened  his  head  on  the  pillows  and 
closed  his  eyes.  "You  gave  me  leave  to  grumble — well,  then,  I 
am  so  horribly  disappointed.  Here  have  life  and  death  been 
sitting  on  either  side  of  me  for  the  past  month,  and  throwing 
with  dice  for  me.  I  saw  them  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  you.  The 
queer  thing  was  they  were  exactly  alike,  yet  I  knew  them  apart 
from  the  first.  Day  and  night  I  heard  the  rattle  of  the  dice — it 
became  hideously  monotonous — and  felt  the  mouth  of  the  dice- 
box  on  my  chest  when  they  threw.  I  backed  death  heavily.  It 
seemed  to  me  there  were  ways  of  loading  the  dice.  I  loaded 
them.  But  it  wasn't  to  be,  mother.  Life  always  threw  the 
highest  numbers — and  life  had  the  last  throw." 

"  I  praise  God  for  tliat,"  Katherine  said,  very  softly. 

"  I  don't,  unfortunately,"  he  answered.  "  I  hoped  for  a  neat 
little  execution — a  little  pain,  perhaps,  a  little  shedding  of  blood, 
without  which  there  is  no  remission  of  sins — but  I  suppose  that 
would  have  been  letting  me  off  too  easy." 

He  drew  away  his  hand  and  covered  his  eyes. 


5i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  ^V^^en  I  had  seen  you  I  seemed  to  have  made  my  final 
peace.  I  understood  why  I  had  been  kept  waiting  till  then. 
Having  seen  you,  I  flattered  myself  I  might  decently  get  free  at 
last.  But  I  am  branded  afresh,  that's  all,  and  sent  back  to  the 
galleys." 

Lady  Calmady's  eyes  sought  the  radiant  prospect — the  green 
of  the  garden,  the  graceful  columns  of  the  airy  pavilion,  the  lilac 
land  set  in  the  azure  of  sea  and  sky.  No  words  of  hers  could 
give  comfort  as  yet,  so  she  would  remain  silent.  Her  trust  was 
in  the  amiable  ministry  of  time,  which  may  Joring  solace  to  the 
tormented,  human  soul,  even  as  it  reclothes  the  mountain-side 
swept  by  the  lava  stream,  or  cleanses  and  renders  gladly  habitable 
the  plague-devastated  city. 

But  there  was  a  movement  upon  the  bed.  Richard  had 
turned  on  his  side.  He  had  recovered  his  self-control,  and  once 
more  looked  fixedly  at  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  calmly,  "  is  your  love  great  enough  to 
take  me  back,  and  to  give  yourself  to  me  again,  though  I  am  not 
fit  so  much  as  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment?  " 

"There  is  neither  giving  nor  taking,  my  beloved,"  she  answered, 
smiling  upon  him.  "  In  the  truth  of  things,  you  have  never  left 
me,  neither  have  I  ever  let  you  go." 

"  Ah  !  but  consider  these  last  four  years  and  their  record  ! " 
he  rejoined.  "  I  am  not  the  same  man  that  I  was.  There's  no 
getting  away  from  fact,  from  deeds  actually  done,  or  words 
actually  said,  for  that  matter.  I  have  kept  my  singularly 
repulsive  infirmity  of  body,  and  to  it  I  have  added  a  mind 
festering  with  foul  memories.  I  have  been  a  brute  to  you,  a 
traitor  to  a  friend  who  trusted  me.  I  have  been  a  sensualist, 
an  adulterer.  And  I  am  hopelessly  broken  in  pride  and  self- 
respect.  The  conceit,  the  pluck  even,  has  been  licked  right  out 
of  me." — Richard  paused,  steadying  his  voice  which  faltered 
again. — "I  only  want,  since  it  seems  I've  got  to  go  on  living, 
to  slink  away  somewhere  out  of  sight,  and  hide  myself  and  my 
wretchedness  and  shame  from  everyone  I  know. — Can  you  bear 
with  me,  soured  and  invalided  as  I  am,  mother?  Can  you  put 
up  with  my  temper,  and  my  silence,  and  my  grumbling,  useless 
log  as  I  must  continue  to  be?" 

"  Yes — everlastingly  yes,"  Katherine  answered. 

Richard  threw  himself  flat  on  his  back  again. 

"Ah  !  how  I  hate  myself — my  God,  how  I  hate  myself! "  he 
exclaimed. 

"  And  how  beyond  all  worlds  I  love  you,"  Katherine  put  in 
quietly. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  517 

He  felt  out  for  her  hand  across  the  sheet,  found  and  held  it. 
There  were  footsteps  upon  the  terrace  to  the  right,  the  scent 
of  a  cigar,  Ludovic  Quayle's  voice  in  question,  Honoria  St. 
Quentin's  in  answer,  both  with  enforced  discretion  and  lowness 
of  tone.  General  Ormiston  joined  them.  Miss  St.  Quentin 
laughed  gently.  The  sound  was  musical  and  sweet.  Footsteps 
and  voices  died  away.  A  clang  of  bells  and  the  hooting  of  an 
outward-bound  liner  came  up  from  the  city  and  the  port. 

Richard's  calm  had  returned.     His  expression  had  softened. 

"  Will  those  two  marry  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

Lady  Calmady  paused  before  speaking. 

"  I  hope  so — for  Ludovic's  sake,"  she  said.  "  He  has  served, 
if  not  quite  Jacob's  seven  years,  yet  a  full  five  for  his  love." 

"  If  for  Ludovic's  sake,  why  not  for  hers  ?  "  Dickie  asked. 

"  Because  two  halves  don't  always  make  a  whole  in  marriage," 
Katherine  said. 

"  You  are  as  great  an  idealist  as  ever ! " —  He  paused, 
then  raised  himself,  sitting  upright,  speaking  with  a  certain 
passion. 

"  Mother,  will  you  take  me  away,  away  from  everyone,  at 
once,  just  as  soon  as  possible?  I  never  want  to  see  this  room, 
or  this  house,  or  Naples  again.  The  climax  was  reached  here  of 
disillusion,  and  of  iniquity,  and  of  degradation.  Don't  ask  what 
it  was.  I  couldn't  tell  you.  And,  mercifully,  only  one  person, 
whose  lips  are  sealed  in  self-defence,  knows  exactly  what  took 
place  besides  myself.  But  I  want  to  get  away,  away  alone  with 
you,  who  are  perfectly  unsullied  and  compassionate,  and  who 
have  forgiven  me,  and  who  still  can  love.  Will  you  come? 
Will  you  take  me?     The  yacht  is  all  ready  for  sea." 

"  Yes,"  Katherine  said. 

"  I  asked  this  morning  who  was  here  with  you,  and  Powell 
told  me.  I  can't  see  them,  mother,  simply  I  can't  !  I  haven't 
the  nerve.     I  haven't  the  face.     Can  you  send  them  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Katherine  said. 

Richard's  eyes  had  grown  dangerously  bright.  A  spot  of 
colour  burned  on  either  cheek.     Katherine  leaned  over  him. 

"  My  dearest,"  she  declared,  "  you  have  talked  enough." 

"  Yes,  they're  beginning  to  play  again,  I  can  hear  the  rattle 
of  the  dice. — Mother,  take  me  away,  take  me  out  to  sea,  away 
from  this  dreadful  place. — Ah  !  you  poor  darling,  how  horribly 
selfish  I  am  ! — But  let  me  get  out  to  sea,  and  then  later,  take 
me  home — to  Brockhurst.     The  house  is  big.     Nobody  need  see 


me." 


"  No,  no,"  Katherine  said,  hying  him  back  with  tender  force 


5i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

upon  the  pillows. — "  No  one  has  seen  you,  no  one  shall  see  you. 
We  will  be  alone,  you  and  I,  just  as  long  as  you  wish.  With  me, 
my  beloved,  you  are  very  safe." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DEAUKG    WITH    MATTEUS    OF    HEARSAY    AND    MATTERS    OF     SPORT 

ONE  raw,  foggy  evening,  early  in  the  following  December, 
the  house  at  Newlands  presented  an  unusually  animated 
scene.  On  the  gravel  of  the  carriage-sweep,  without,  grooms 
walked  breathed  and  sweating  horses — the  steam  from  whose 
bodies  and  nostrils  showed  white  in  the  chill  dusk — slowly  up  and 
down.  In  the  hall,  within,  a  number  of  gentlemen,  more  or  less 
mud-bespattered,  regaled  themselves  with  cheerful  conversation, 
with  strong  waters  of  unexceptionable  quality,  and  with  their 
host,  Mr.  Cathcart's,  very  excellent  cigars.  They  moved  stiffly 
and  stood  in  attitudes  more  professional  than  elegant.  The 
long,  clear-coloured  drawing-room  beyond  offered  a  perspective 
of  much  amiable  comfort.  The  glazed  surfaces  of  its  flowery- 
patterned  chintzes  gave  back  the  brightness  of  candles  and 
shaded  lamps,  while  drawn  curtains  shut  out  the  somewhat 
mournful  prospect  of  sodden  garden,  bare  trees,  and  grey,  en- 
shrouding mist.  At  the  tea-table,  large,  mild,  reposeful,  clothed 
in  wealth  of  black  silk  and  black  lace,  was  Mrs.  Cathcart.  Lord 
Fallowfeild,  his  handsome,  infantile  countenance  beaming  with 
good-nature  and  good-health  above  his  blue-and-white,  bird's-eye 
stock  and  scarlet  hunting-coat,  sat  by  her  discoursing  with  great 
affability  and  at  great  length.  Mary  Ormiston  stood  near  them, 
an  expression  of  kindly  diversion  upon  her  face.  Her  figure  had 
grown  somewhat  matronly  in  these  days,  and  there  were  lines  in 
her  forehead  and  about  the  corners  of  her  rather  large  mouth  ;  but 
her  crisp  hair  was  still  untouched  by  grey,  her  bright,  gipsylike  com- 
plexion had  retained  its  freshness,  she  possessed  the  same  effect 
of  wholesomeness  and  good  sense  as  of  old,  while  her  honest, 
brown  eyes  were  soft  with  satisfied  mother-love  as  they  met  those 
of  the  slender,  black-headed  boy  at  her  side. — Godfrey  Ormiston 
was  in  his  second  term  at  Eton,  and  had  come  to  Newlands 
to-day  for  his  exeat. — The  little  party  was  completed  by  Lord 
Shotover,  who  stood  before  the  fire  warming  that  part  of  his 
person  which  by  the  lay  mind,  unversed  in  such  mysteries,  might 
have  been  judged  to  be  already  more  than  sufficiently  warmed 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  519 

by  the  saddle,  his  feet  planted  far  apart  and  a  long  glass  of 
brandy  and  soda  in  his  hand.  For  this  last  he  had  offered 
good-tempered  apology. 

"  I  know  I've  no  business  to  bring  it  in  here,  Mrs.  Cathcart," 
he  said,  "  and  make  your  drawing-room  smell  like  a  pot-house. 
But,  you  see,  there  was  a  positive  stampede  for  the  hearth-rug 
in  the  hall.  A  modest  man,  such  as  myself,  hadn't  a  chance. 
There's  a  regular  rampart,  half  the  county  in  fact,  before  that 
fire.  So  I  thought  I'd  just  slope  in  here,  don't  you  know.  It 
looked  awfully  warm  and  inviting.  And  then  I  wanted  to  pay 
my  respects  to  Mrs.  Ormiston  too,  and  talk  to  this  young  chap 
about  Eton  in  peace." 

Whereat  Godfrey  flushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  being 
very  sensibly  exalted.  Since  what  young  male  creature  who  knew 
anything  really  worth  knowing — that  was  Godfrey's  way  of  putting 
it  at  least — did  not  know  that  Lord  Shotover  had  been  a  mighty 
sportsman  from  his  youth  up,  and  upon  a  certain  famous  occasion 
had  won  the  Grand  National  on  his  own  horse  ? 

"Only  tea  for  me,  Mrs.  Cathcart,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  was  say- 
ing. "Capital  thing  tea.  Never  touch  spirits  in  the  daytime 
and  never  have.  No  reflection  upon  other  men's  habits." — He 
turned  an  admiring,  fatherly  glance  upon  the  tall,  well-made 
Shotover. — "  Other  men  know  their  own  business  best.  Always 
have  been  a  great  advocate  for  believing  every  man  knows  his 
own  business  best.  Still  stick  to  my  own  habits.  Like  to  be 
consistent.  Very  steadying,  sobering  thing  to  be  consistent, 
very  strengthening  to  the  character.  Always  have  told  all  my 
children  that.  As  you  begin,  so  you  should  go  on.  Always 
have  tried  to  begin  as  I  was  going  on.  Haven't  always  suc- 
ceeded, but  have  made  an  honest  effort.  And  it  is  something, 
you  know,  to  make  an  honest  effort.  Try  to  bear  that  in  mind, 
you  young  gentleman," — this,  genially,  to  Godfrey  Ormiston. 
"  Not  half  a  bad  rule  to  start  in  life  with,  to  go  on  as  you 
begin,  you  know." 

"  Always  provided  you  begin  right,  you  know,  my  dear  fellow," 
Shotover  observed,  patting  the  boy's  shoulder  with  his  disengaged 
hand,  and  looking  at  the  boy's  mother  with  a  humorous  sug- 
gestion of  self-dcjireciation.  Now,  as  formerly,  he  entertained 
the  very  friendliest  sentiments  towards  all  good  women,  yet 
maintained  an  ex{)cnsively  extensive  acquaintance  with  women 
to  whom  that  adjective  is  not  generically  applicalile. 

But  Lord  F'allowfeild  was  fairly  under  weigh.  Words  flowed 
from  him,  careless  of  comment  or  of  interruption.  He  was 
innocently  and  conspicuously  happy.      He  had  enjoyed  a  fine 


520  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

day's  sport  in  company  with  his  favourite  son,  whose  financial 
embarrassments  were  not,  it  may  be  added,  just  now  in  a  critical 
condition.  And  then  access  of  material  prosperity  had  recently 
come  to  Lord  Fallowfeild  in  the  shape  of  a  considerable  coal- 
producing  property  in  the  north  of  Midlandshire.  The  income 
derived  from  this — amounting  to  from  ten  to  twelve  thousand  a 
year — was  payable  to  him  during  his  lifetime,  with  remainder, 
on  trust,  in  equal  shares  to  all  his  children.  There  were  good 
horses  in  the  Whitney  stables  now,  and  no  question  of  making 
shift  to  let  the  house  in  Belgrave  Square  for  the  season,  while 
the  amiable  nobleman's  banking-account  showed  a  far  from 
despicable  balance.  And  consciousness  of  this  last  fact  formed 
an  agreeable  undercurrent  to  his  every  thought.  Therefore  was 
he  even  more  than  usually  garrulous  according  to  his  own  kindly 
and  innocent  fashion. 

"  Very  hospitable  and  friendly  of  you  and  Cathcart,  to  be 
sure,"  he  continued,  "to  throw  open  your  house  in  this  way. 
Kindness  alike  to  man  and  beast,  man  and  beast,  for  which  my 
son  and  I  are  naturally  very  grateful." 

Lord  Shotover  looked  at  Mary  again,  smiling. — "  Little 
mixed  that  statement,  isn't  it,"  he  said,  "unless  we  take  for 
granted  that  I'm  the  beast?" 

"  I  was  a  good  deal  perplexed,  I  own,  Mrs.  Cathcart,  as  to 
how  we  should  get  home  without  giving  the  horses  a  rest  and 
having  them  gruelled.     Fourteen  miles" — 

"  A  precious  long  fourteen  too,"  put  in  Shotover. 

"So  it  is,"  his  father  agreed,  "a  long  fourteen.  And  my 
horse  was  pumped,  regularly  pumped.  I  can't  bear  to  see  a 
horse  as  done  as  that.  It  distresses  me,  downright  distresses 
me.  Hate  to  over-press  a  horse.  Hate  to  over-press  anything 
that  can't  stand  up  to  you  and  take  its  revenge  on  you.  Always 
feel  ashamed  of  myself  if  I've  over-pressed  a  horse.  But  I 
hadn't  reckoned  on  the  distance." 

"'The  pace  was  too  hot  to  inquire,'"  quoted  Shotover. 

"  So  it  was.  Meeting  at  Grimshott,  you  see,  we  very  rarely 
kill  so  far  on  this  side  of  the  country." 

"I3reaking  just  where  he  did,  I'd  have  bet  on  that  fox 
doubling  back  under  Talepenny  wood  and  making  across  the 
vale  for  the  earths  in  the  big  Brockhurst  warren,"  Lord  Shotover 
declared. 

"Would  you,  though?"  said  his  father.  "Very  reasonable 
forecast,  very  reasonable,  indeed.  Quite  the  likeliest  thing  for 
him  to  do,  only  he  didn't  do  it.  Don't  believe  that  fox  belonged 
to  this  side  of  the  country  at  all.     Don't  understand  his  tactics. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  521 

If  it  had  been  in  my  poor  friend  Denier's  time,  I  might  have 
suspected  him  of  being  a  bagman." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  chuckled  a  little. 

"Ran  too  straight  for  a  bagman,"  Shotover  remarked. 
"Well,  he  gave  us  a  rattling  good  spin  whose-ever  fox  he 
was." 

"Didn't  he,  though?"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild  genially. — He 
turned  sideways  in  his  chair,  threw  one  shapely  leg  across  the 
other,  and  addressed  himself  more  exclusively  to  his  hostess. 
"Haven't  had  such  a  day  for  years,"  he  continued.  "And  a 
very  pleasant  thing  to  have  such  a  day  just  when  my  son's  down 
with  me — very  pleasant,  indeed.  It  reminds  me  of  my  poor,  dear 
friend  Henniker's  time.  Good  fellow  Henniker.  I  likecf' 
Henniker.  Never  had  a  better  master  than  Tom  Henniker, 
very  tactful,  nice-feeling  man,  and  had  such  an  excellent  manner 
with  the  farmers —  Ah  !  here's  Cathcart — and  Knott.  How  d'ye 
do,  Knott?  Always  glad  to  see  you. — Very  pleasant  meeting 
such  a  number  of  friends.  Very  pleasant  ending  to  a  pleasant 
day,  eh,  Shotover?  Mrs.  Cathcart  and  I  were  just  speaking  of 
poor  Tom  Henniker.  You  used  to  hunt  then,  Cathcart.  Do 
you  remember  a  run,  just  about  this  time  of  year? — It  may  have 
been  a  little  earlier.  I  tell  you  why.  It  was  the  second  time  the 
hounds  met  after  my  poor  friend  Aldborough's  funeral." 

"  Lord  Aldborough  died  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  October," 
John  Knott  said.  The  doctor  limped  in  walking.  He  suffered 
a  sharp  twinge  of  sciatica  and  his  face  lent  itself  to  astonishing 
contortions. 

"  Plain  man  Knott,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  commented  inwardly. 
"  Monstrously  able  fellow,  but  uncommonly  plain.  So's  Cathcart 
for  that  matter.  Well-dressed  man  and  very  well-preserved  as  to 
fiL^ure,  but  remarkably  like  an  orang-outang  now  his  eyes  are 
sunk  and  his  eyebrows  have  grown  so  tui\y." — Then  he  glanced 
anxiously  at  Lord  Shotover  to  assure  himself  of  the  entire  absence 
of  simian  ap[)roximations  in  the  case  of  his  own  family. — "Oh! 
ah!  yes,"  he  remarked  aloud,  and  somewhat  vaguely.  "Quite 
right,  Knott.  Then  of  course  it  was  earlier.  Kecord  run  for 
that  season.  Seldom  had  a  better.  We  found  a  fox  in  the 
Grimshott  gorsc  and  ran  to  Water  End  without  a  check." 

"And  Lemuel  Image  got  into  the  Tilncy  brook,"  Mary 
Ormiston  said,  laughing  a  little. 

"So  he  did,  though!"  Lord  Fallf)wfcild  rejoined,  beaming. 
And  then  suddenly  his  complacency  suffered  eclipse.  For,  look- 
ing at  the  speaker,  he  became  disagreeably  aware  of  having,  on 
some  occasion,  said  something  highly  inconvenient  concerning 


522  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

this  lady  to  one  of  her  near  relations.  He  rushed  into  speech 
again  : — "  Loud-voiced,  blustering  kind  of  fellow  Image.  I  never 
have  liked  Image.  Extraordinary  marriage  that  of  his  with  a 
connection  of  poor  Aldborough's.  Never  have  understood  how 
her  people  could  allow  it." 

"  Oh  !  money  'II  buy  pretty  well  everything  in  this  world 
except  brains  and  a  sound  liver,"  Dr.  Knott  said,  as  he  lowered 
himself  cautiously  on  to  the  seat  of  the  highest  chair  available. 

"  Or  a  good  conscience,"  Mrs.  Cathcart  observed,  with  mild 
dogmatism. 

"  I  am  net  altogether  so  sure  about  that,"  the  doctor  answered. 
"  I  have  known  the  doubling  of  a  few  charitable  subscriptions 
work  extensive  cures  under  that  head.  Depend  upon  it  there's 
an  immense  deal  more  conscience-money  paid  every  year  than 
ever  finds  its  way  into  the  coffers  of  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer." 

"  So  there  is,  though  ! "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  an  air  of 
regretful  conviction.  "Never  put  it  as  clearly  as  that  myself, 
Knott,  but  must  own  I  am  afraid  there  is." 

Mr.  Cathcart,  who  had  joined  Lord  Shotover  upon  the  hearth- 
rug, here  intervened.  He  had  a  tendency  to  air  local  grievances, 
especially  in  the  presence  of  his  existing  noble  guest,  whom  he 
regarded,  not  wholly  without  reason,  as  somewhat  lukewarm  and 
dilatory  in  questions  of  reform. 

"  I  own  to  sharing  your  dislike  of  Image,"  he  remarked.  "  He 
behaved  in  an  anything  but  straightforward  manner  about  the 
site  for  the  new  cottage  hospital  at  Parson's  Holt." 

"  Did  he,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  Yes. — I  supposed  it  had  been  brought  to  your  notice." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  fidgeted  a  little. — "Rather  too  downright 
Cathcart,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Gets  you  into  a  corner  and  fixes 
you.  Not  fair,  not  at  all  fair  in  general  society. — Oh !  ah ! — 
cottage  hospital,  yes,"  he  added  aloud.  "  Very  tiresome,  vexatious 
business  about  that  hospital.     I  felt  it  very  much  at  the  time." 

"  It  was  a  regular  job,"  Mr.  Cathcart  continued. 

"  No,  not  a  job,  not  a  job,  my  dear  fellow.  Unpleasant  word 
job.  Nothing  approaching  a  job,  only  an  oversight,  at  most  an 
unfortunate  error  of  judgment,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  protested. — He 
glanced  at  his  son  inviting  support,  but  that  gentleman  was 
engaged  in  kindly  conversation  with  bright-eyed,  little  Godfrey 
Ormiston.  He  glanced  at  Mary — remembered  suddenly  that  his 
unfortunate  remark  regarding  that  lady  had  been  connected  with 
her  resemblance  to  her  father,  and  the  latter's  striking  defect  of 
personal  beauty.     He  glanced  at  the  doctor.     But  John  Knott  sat 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  525 

all  hunched  together,  watching  him  with  an  expression  rather 
sardonic  than  sympathetic. 

"There  was  culpable  negligence  somewhere,  in  any  case,"' 
his  persecutor,  Mr.  Cathcart,  went  on.  "  It  was  obvious  Image 
pressed  that  bit  of  land  at  Waters  End  on  the  committee  simply 
because  no  one  would  buy  it  for  building  purposes.  His  affecta- 
tion of  generosity  as  to  price  was  a  piece  of  the  most  transparent 
hypocrisy." 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  agreed  mildly. 

"A  certain  anonymous  donor  had  promised  a  second  five 
hundred  pounds,  if  the  hospital  was  built  on  high  ground  with  a 
subsoil  of  gravel." 

"  It  is  on  gravel,"  put  in  Lord  Fallowfeild  anxiously.  "  Saw 
it  myself — distinctly  remember  seeing  gravel  when  the  heather 
had  been  pared  before  digging  the  foundations — bright  yellow 
gravel." 

"  Yes,  and  with  a  ten-foot  bed  of  blue  clay  underneath.  Most 
dangerous  soil  going," — this  from  Dr.  Knott,  grimly. 

"  Is  it,  though  ?  "  Lord  Fallowfeild  inquired,  with  an  amiable 
effort  to  welcome  unpalatable,  geological  information. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  The  surface  water  and  generally  the 
sewage — for  we  are  very  far  yet  from  having  discovered  a  drain- 
pipe which  is  impeccable  in  respect  of  leakage — soak  through  the 
porous  cap  down  to  the  clay  and  lie  there ;  to  rise  again,  not  at 
the  Last  Day  by  any  means,  but  on  the  evening  of  the  very  first 
one  that's  been  hot  enough  to  cause  evaporation." 

"Do  they,  though?"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  He  was  greatly 
impressed. — "  Capable  fellow  Knott,  wonderful  thing  science," 
he  commented  inwardly  and  with  praiseworthy  humility. 

But  Mr.  Cathcart  returned  to  the  charge. 

"The  hospital  was  disastrously  the  loser,  in  any  case,"  he 
remarked.  "  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  conditions  having  been 
disregarded,  Lady  Calmady  withdrew  her  promise  of  a  second 
donation." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  Lady  Calmady,  really  !  "  the  simple-minded  noble- 
man exclaimed.  "Very  interesting  piece  of  news  and  very 
generous  intention,  no  doubt,  on  the  part  of  Lady  Calmady.  But 
give  you  my  word,  Cathcart,  that  until  this  moment  I  had  no 
notion  that  the  anonymous  donor  of  whom  wc  heard  so  much  from 
one  or  two  members  of  the  committee — heard  too  much,  I 
thought,  for  I  dislike  mysteries  —  foolish,  unprofitable  things 
mysteries — always  turn  out  to  be  nothing  at  all  in  the  finish — 
oh !  ah  !  yes  —  well,  that  the  anonymous  donor  was  Lady 
Calmady  ! " 


524  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  thereupon  he  shifted  his  position  with  as  much  assump- 
tion of  hauteur  as  his  inherent  kindliness  permitted.  He  turned 
his  chair  sideways,  presenting  an  excellently  flat,  if  somewhat 
broad,  scarlet-clad  back  to  his  persecutor  upon  the  hearth-rug. — 
"Sorry  to  set  a  man  down  in  his  own  house,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"but  Cathcart's  a  httle  wanting  in  taste  sometimes.  He  presses 
a  subject  home  too  closely.  And  if  I  was  bamboozled  by  Image, 
it  really  isn't  Cathcart's  place  to  remind  me  of  it." 

He  turned  a  worried  and  puckered  countenance  upon  his 
hostess,  upon  Dr.  Knott,  upon  the  drawing-room  door.  In  the 
hall,  beyond,  one  or  two  guests  still  lingered.  A  lady  had  just 
joined  them,  notably  straight  and  tall,  and  lazily  graceful  of 
movement.  Lord  Fallowfeild  knew  her,  but  could  not  remember 
her  name. 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  Shotover,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder,  "  I  don't 
want  to  hurry  you,  my  dear  boy,  but  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well 
if  you'd  just  go  round  to  the  stables  and  take  a  look  at  the 
horses." 

Then,  as  the  gentleman  addressed  moved  away,  escorted  by 
his  host  and  followed  in  admiring  silence  by  Godfrey  Ormiston, 
he  repeated,  almost  querulously  : —  "  Foolish  things  mysteries. 
Nothing  in  them,  as  a  rule,  when  you  thrash  them  out.  Mares' 
nests  generally.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  hear  young" — Lord 
Fallowfeild's  air  of  worry  became  accentuated — "  young  Calmady's 
got  home  again  at  last." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Cathcart  said,  "Richard  and  his  mother  have 
been  at  Brockhurst  nearly  a  month." 

"  Have  they,  though  ? "  exclaimed  Lord  Fallowfeild.  He 
fidgeted.  "It's  a  painful  subject  to  refer  to,  but  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  the  truth  of  these  nasty,  uncomfortable  rumours 
about  young  Calmady.  You  see  there  was  that  question  of  his 
and  my  youngest  daughter's  marriage.  I  never  approved.  Shot- 
over  backed  me  up  in  that.  He  didn't  approve  either.  And  in 
the  end  Calmady  behaved  in  a  very  high-minded,  straightforward 
manner.  Came  to  me  himself  and  exhibited  very  good  sense 
and  very  proper  feeling,  did  Calmady.  Admitted  his  own  dis- 
abilities W'ith  extraordinary  frankness,  too  much  frankness,  I  was 
inclined  to  thmk  at  the  time.  It  struck  me  as  a  trifle  callous, 
don't  you  know.  But  afterwards,  when  he  left  home  in  that 
singular  manner  and  went  abroad,  and  we  all  lost  sight  of  him, 
and  heard  how  reckless  he  had  become  and  all  that,  it  weighed 
on  me.  I  give  you  my  word,  Mrs.  Cathcart,  it  weighed  very 
much  on  me.  I've  seldom  been  more  upset  by  anything  in  my 
life  than  I  was  by  the  whole  affair  of  that  wedding." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  525 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  great  mistake  throughout,"  Mrs.  Cathcart 
said.  She  folded  her  plump,  white  hands  upon  her  ample  lap 
and  sighed  gently. 

"  Wasn't  it,  though  ?  So  I  told  everybody  from  the  start  you 
know,"  commented  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  It  caused  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness." 

"So  it  did,  so  it  did,"  the  good  man  said.  He  looked 
crestfallen,  his  kindly  and  well-favoured  countenance  being  over- 
spread by  an  expression  of  disarmingly  innocent  penitence. — 
"  It  weighed  on  me.  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  forget 
it,  but  now  it's  all  cropping  up  again.  You  see  there  are  these 
rumours  that  poor,  young  Calmady's  gone  under  very  much 
one  way  and  another,  that  his  health's  broken  up  altogether,  and 
that  he  is  shut  up  in  two  rooms  at  Brockhurst  because — it's  a 
terribly  distressing  thing  to  mention,  but  that's  the  common  talk, 
you  know  —  because  he's  a  little  touched  here"  —  the  speaker 
tapped  his  smooth  and  very  candid  forehead — "a  little  wrong 
here  !     Horrible  thing  insanity,"  he  repeated. 

At  this  point  Dr.  Knott,  who  had  been  watching  first  one 
person  and  then  another  present  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
with  an  air  of  somewhat  harsh  amusement,  roused  himself. 

"  Pardon  me,  all  a  pack  of  lies,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "  and  stupid 
ones  into  the  bargain.  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  as  sane  as  you  are 
yourself." 

"Is  he,  though?"  the  other  exclaimed,  brightening  sensibly. 
"Thank  you,  Knott.     It  is  a  very  great  relief  to  me  to  hear  that." 

"  Only  a  man  with  a  remarkably  sound  constitution  could 
have  pulled  round.  I  quite  own  he's  been  very  hard  hit,  and  no 
wonder.     Typhoid  and  complications  " — 

"Ah  !  complications?"  inquired  Lord  Fallowfeild,  who  rarely 
let  slip  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  information  of  a  pathological 
description. 

"  Yes,  complications.  Of  the  sort  that  are  most  difiicult  to 
deal  with,  emotional  and  moral — beginning  with  his  engagement 
to  Lady  Constance  " — 

"  Oh,  dear  me  ! " — this,  piteously,  from  that  lady's  father. 

"And  ending — his  .Satanic  Majesty  knows  where  !  I  don't. 
It's  no  concern  of  mine,  nor  of  anyone  else's  in  my  o[)inion. 
Ke  has  paid  his  footing  —  every  man  has  to  pay  it  sooner 
or  later — to  life  and  experience,  and  a  personal  ac(|uaintance 
with  the  thou  shalt  not  which,  for  cause  unknown,  goes  for  so 
almighty  much  in  this  very  queer  business  of  iiunian  existence. 
He  has  had  a  rough  time,  never  doubt  that,  with  his  high-strung, 
arrogant,  sensitive  nature  and  the  dirty  trick  played  on  him  by 


526  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

that  heartless  jade,  Dame  Fortune,  before  his  birth.  For  the 
time,  this  illness  had  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him.  If  he  sulks 
for  a  bit,  small  blame  to  him.  But  he'll  come  round.  He  is 
coming  round  day  by  day." 

As  he  finished  speaking  the  doctor  got  on  to  his  feet  some- 
what awkwardly.  His  subject  had  affected  him  more  deeply  than 
he  quite  cared  either  to  own  to  himself  or  to  have  others  see. 

"That  plaguy  sciatic  nerve  again,"  he  growled. 

Lord  Fallowfeild  had  risen  also. — "  Capable  man  Knott,  but 
rather  rough  at  times,  rather  too  didactic,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
he  turned  to  greet  Miss  St.  Quentin.  She  had  strolled  in  from 
the  hall.  Her  charming  face  was  full  of  merriment.  There  was 
something  altogether  gallant  in  the  carriage  of  her  small  head. 

"  I  was  so  awfully  glad  to  see  Lord  Shotover  ! "  she  said,  as  she 
gave  her  hand  to  that  gentleman's  father.  "  It's  an  age  since  he 
and  I  have  met." 

"Very  pleasant  hearing,  my  dear  young  lady,  for  Shotover,  if 
he  was  here  to  hear  it !  Lucky  fellow  Shotover." — The  kindly 
nobleman  beamed  upon  her.  He  was  nothing  if  not  chivalrous. 
Mentally,  all  the  same,  he  was  much  perplexed.  "  Of  course,  I 
remember  who  she  is.  But  I  understood  it  was  Ludovic,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "Made  sure  it  was  Ludovic.  Uncommonly 
attractive,  high-bred  woman.  Very  striking  looking  pair,  she  and 
Shotover.  Can't  fancy  Shotover  settled,  though.  Say  she's  a  lot 
of  money.  Wonder  whether  it  is  Shotover  ? — Uncommonly  fine 
run,  best  run  we've  had  for  years,"  he  added  aloud.  "  Pity  you 
weren't  out,  Miss  St.  Quentin. — Well,  good-bye,  Mrs.  Cathcart. 
I  must  be  going.  I  am  extremely  grateful  for  all  your  kindness 
and  hospitality.  It  is  seldom  I  have  the  chance  of  meeting  so 
many  friends  this  side  of  the  country. — Good-day  to  you,  Knott 
— good-bye.  Miss  St.  Quentin. — Wonder  if  I'd  better  ask  her  to 
Whitney,"  he  thought,  "on  the  chance  of  its  being  Shotover? 
Better  sound  him  first,  though.  Never  let  a  man  in  for  a  woman 
unless  you've  very  good  reason  to  suppose  he  wants  her." 

Honoria,  meanwhile,  thrusting  her  hands  into  the  pockets  of 
her  long,  fur-lined,  tan,  cloth  driving-coat  sat  down  on  the  arm  of 
Mary  Ormiston's  flowery-patterned,  chintz-covered  chair. 

"  I  left  you  all  in  a  state  of  holy  peace  and  quiet,"  she  said, 
smiling,  "  and  a  fine  show  you've  got  on  hand  by  the  time  I  come 
back." 

"  They  ran  across  the  ten-acre  field  and  killed  in  the  shrub- 
bery," Mrs.  Ormiston  put  in. 

John  Knott  limped  forward.  He  stood  with  his  hands  behind 
him  looking  down  at  the  two  ladies.     Some  months  had  elapsed 


I 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  527 

since  he  and  Miss  St.  Quentin  had  met.  He  was  very  fond  of 
the  young  lady.  It  interested  him  to  meet  her  again.  Honoria 
glanced  up  at  him  smiling. 

"  Have  you  been  out  too  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  too  busy  mending  other  people's  brittle 
anatomy  to  have  time  to  risk  breaking  any  part  of  my  own.  I'm 
ugly  enough  already.  No  need  to  make  me  uglier.  I  came  here 
for  the  express  purpose  of  calling  on  you." 

"  You  saw  Katherine  ?  "  Mary  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  saw  Cousin  Katherine." 

"  How  is  she  ?  " 

"An  embodiment  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  as  usual;  but 
with  just  that  pinch  of  malice  thrown  in  which  gives  the  com- 
pound a  flavour.  In  short,  she  is  enchanting.  And  then  she 
looks  so  admirably  well." 

"That  six  months  at  sea  was  a  great  restorative,"  Mary 
remarked. 

"  Yet  it  really  is  rather  wonderful  when  you  consider  the  state 
she  was  in  before  we  went  to  you  at  Ormiston,  and  how  fright- 
ened we  were  at  her  undertaking  the  journey  to  Naples." 

"  Her  affections  are  satisfied,"  Dr.  Knott  said,  and  his  loose 
lips  worked  into  a  smile,  half  sneering,  half  tender.  "  I  am  an 
old  man,  and  I  have  had  a  good  lot  to  do  with  women — at 
second  hand.  Feed  their  hearts,  and  the  rest  of  the  mechanism 
runs  easy  enough.  Anything  short  of  organic  disease  can  be 
cured  by  that  sort  of  nourishinent.  Even  organic  disease  can  be 
arrested  by  it.  And  what's  more,  I  have  known  disease  develop 
in  an  apparently  perfectly  healthy  subject  simply  because  the 
heart  was  starved.     Oh  !  I  tell  you,  you're  marvellous  beings." 

"  And  yet  you  know  I  feel  so  abominably  sold,"  Honoria 
declared,  "when  I  consider  the  way  in  which  we  all — Roger,  Mr. 
Quayle,  and  I — acted  bodyguard,  attended  Cousin  Katherine  to 
Naples,  wrapped  her  in  cotton  wool,  dear  thing,  sternly  deter- 
mined to  protect  her  at  all  costs  and  all  ha/ards  from — well,  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  I  had  no  name  bad  enough  at  that  time 
for  Richard  Calmady  !  And  then  this  very  person,  whom  we 
regarded  as  her  probable  destruction,  proves  to  be  her  al).solute 
salvation,  while  she  proceeds  to  turn  the  tables  upon  us  in  the 
smartest  fashion  imaginable.  She  showed  us  the  door  and  en- 
treated us,  in  the  most  beguiling  manner,  to  return  whence  wc 
came  and  leave  her  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the  enemy.  1  was 
furious" — Miss  St.  Quentin  laughed — "downright  furious  !  And 
Roger's  temper,  for  all  his  high-mightiness,  was  a  thing  to  swear 
at,  rather  than  swear  by,  the  morning  he  and  I  left  Naples.     With 


528  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  greatest  difficulty  we  persuaded  her  even  to  keep  Clara.  She 
had  a  rage,  dear  thing,  for  getting  rid  of  the  lot  of  us.  Oh  !  we 
had  a  royal  skirmish  and  no  mistake." 

"  So  Roger  told  me." 

Honoria  stretched  herself  a  little,  lolled  against  the  back  of 
the  chair,  steadying  herself  by  laying  one  hand  affectionately  on 
the  other  woman's  shoulder.  And  John  Knott,  observing  her, 
noted  not  only  her  nonchalant  and  almost  boyish  grace,  but  a 
swift  change  in  her  humour  from  light-hearted  laughter  to  a 
certain,  and  as  he  fancied,  half-unwilling  enthusiasm. 

"  But  to-day,"  she  went  on,  "when  Cousin  Katherine  told  me 
about  it,  I  confess  the  whole  situation  laid  hold  of  me.  I  could 
not  help  seeing  it  must  have  been  finely  romantic  to  go  off  like 
that — those  two  alone — caring  as  she  cares,  and  after  the  long 
separation.  It  sounds  like  a  thing  in  some  Elizabethan  ballad. 
There's  a  rhythm  in  it  all  which  stirs  one's  blood.  She  says  the 
yacht's  crew  were  delightful  to  her,  and  treated  her  as  a  queen. 
One  can  fancy  that — the  stately,  lovely  queen-mother,  and  that 
strange  only  son ! — They  called  in  at  the  North  African  ports, 
and  at  Gib  and  Madeira,  and  the  Cape  de  Verds,  and  then  ran 
straight  for  Rio.  Then  they  steamed  up  the  coast  to  Pernambuco, 
and  on  to  the  West  Indies.  Richard  never  went  ashore.  Cousin 
Katherine  only  once  or  twice.  But  they  squattered  about  in  the 
everlasting  summer  of  tropic  harbours,  fringed  with  palms  and 
low,  dim,  red-roofed,  tropic  houses — just  sampled  it  all,  the 
colour,  and  light  and  beauty,  and  far-awayness  of  it — and  then, 
when  the  fancy  took  them,  got  up  steam  and  slipped  out  again 
to  sea.  And  the  name  of  the  yacht  is  the  Reprieve.  That's  in 
the  picture,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Honoria  paused.  She  leaned  forward,  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
her  elbows  on  her  knees.  She  looked  up  at  John  Knott,  and 
there  was  a  singular  expression  in  her  clear  and  serious  eyes. 

"  I  used  to  pity  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  said.  "  I  used  to 
break  my  heart  over  her.  And  now — now,  upon  my  word,  I 
believe  I  envy  her. — And  see  here,  Dr.  Knott,  she  has  asked  me 
to  go  on  to  Brockhurst  from  here.  It  seems  that  though  Richard 
refuses  to  see  anyone,  except  you  of  course  and  Julius  March,  he 
fusses  at  his  mother  being  so  much  alone.  What  ought  I  to  do  ? 
I  feel  rather  uncertain.  I  have  fought  him,  I  own  I  have.  We 
have  never  been  friends,  he  and  I.  He  doesn't  like  me.  He's 
no  reason  to  like  me— anything  but !  What  do  you  say?  Shall 
I  refuse  or  shall  I  go  ?  " 

And  the  doctor  reflected  a  little,  drawing  his  great,  square 
hand  down  over  his  mouth  and  heavy,  bristly  chin. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  529 

"Yes,  go,"  he  answered,     "Go  and  chance  it.     Your  being 
at  Brockhurst  may  work  out  in  more  of  good  than  we  now  know." 


CHAPTER  V 

TELLIKG    HOW    DICKIE    CAifE    TO    UNTIE    A    CERTAIN    TAG    OF 
RUSTY,    BLACK    RIBBON 

YET,  as  those  grey,  midwinter  weeks  went  on  to  Christmas, 
and  the  coming  of  the  New  Year,  it  became  undeniable 
there  was  that  in  the  aspect  of  affairs  at  Brockhurst  which  might 
very  well  provoke  curious  comment.     For  the  rigour  of  Richard 
Calmady's  self-imposed  seclusion,  to  which  Miss  St.  Quentin  had 
made   allusion   in   her   conversation   with    Dr.  Knott,  was   not 
relaxed.      Rather,    indeed,    did   it   threaten   to   pass   from   the 
accident  of  a  first  return,  after  long  absence  and  illness,  into  a 
matter  of  fixed  and  accepted  habit.     For  those  years  of  lonely 
wandering  and  spasmodic  rage  of  living,  finding  their  climax  in 
deepening  disappointment,  disillusion,  and  the  shock  of  rudely 
inflicted  insult  and  disgrace,  had  produced  in  Richard  a  profound 
sense  of  alienation  from  society  and  from  the  amenities  of  ordinary 
intercourse.     Since  he  was   apparently  doomed   to   survive,   he 
would  go  home;  but  go  home  very  much  as  some  trapped  or 
wounded  beast  crawls  back  to  hide  in  its  lair.     He  was  master  in 
his  own  house,  at  least,  and  safe  from  intrusion  there.     The  place 
offered  the  silent  sympathy  of  things  familiar,  and  therefore,  in  a 
sense,  uncritical.     It  is  restful  to  look  on  that  upon  which  one 
has  already  looked  a  thousand  times.     And  so,  after  his  recon- 
ciliation   with   his    mother,  followed,    in    natural   sequence,   his 
reconciliation  with  Brockhurst.     Here  he  would  see  only  those 
who  loved  him  well  enough — in  their  several  stations  and  degrees 
— to  respect  his  humour,  to  ask  no  questions,  to  leave  him  to 
himself.     Richard  was  gentle  in  manner  at  this  period,  courteous, 
humorous   even.     But   a   great  discouragement  was  upon  him. 
It  seemed  as  though  some  string  had  snaj)ped,  leaving  half  his 
nature  broken,  unresponsive,  and  dumb.     He  had  no  ambitions, 
no  desire  of  activities.     Sport  and  business  were  as  little  to  his 
mind  as  society. 

More  than  this. — At  first  the  excuse  of  fatigue  had  served  him, 
but  very  soon  it  came  to  be  a  tacitly  admitted  fact  that  Richard 
did  not  leave  the  house.  Surely  it  was  large  enough,  he  said,  to 
afford  space  for  all  the  exercise  he  needed  ?     Refusing  to  occupy 

34 


530  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

his  old  suite  of  rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  he  had  sent  orders, 
before  his  arrival,  that  the  smaller  library,  adjoining  the  Long 
Gallery,  should  be  converted  into  a  bed-chamber  for  him.  It 
had  been  Richard's  practice,  when  on  board  ship,  to  steady 
his  uncertain  footsteps,  on  the  slippery  or  slanting  plane  of  the 
deck,  by  the  use  of  crutches.  And  this  practice  he  in  great 
measure  retained.  It  increased  his  poor  powers  of  locomotion. 
It  rendered  him  more  independent.  Sometimes,  when  secure 
that  Lady  Calmady  would  not  receive  visitors,  he  would  make 
his  way  by  the  large  library,  the  state  drawing-room,  and  stair- 
head, to  the  Chapel-Room  and  sit  with  her  there.  But  more 
often  his  days  were  spent  exclusively  in  the  Long  Gallery.  He 
had  brought  home  many  curious  and  beautiful  objects  from  his 
wanderings.  He  would  add  these  to  the  existing  collection. 
He  would  examine  the  books  too,  procure  such  volumes  as  were 
needed  to  complete  any  imperfect  series  ;  and,  in  the  depart- 
ments of  science,  literature,  and  travel,  bring  the  library  up 
to  date.  He  would  devote  his  leisure  to  the  study  of  various 
subjects — specially  natural  science  —  regarding  which  he  was 
conscious  of  a  knowledge  deficient,  or  merely  empirical. 

"  I  really  am  perfectly  contented,  mother,"  he  said  to  Lady 
Calmady  more  than  once.  "  Look  at  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  gallery !  It  is  as  a  city  of  magnificent  distances,  after  the 
deck  of  the  dear,  old  yacht  and  my  twelve-foot  cabin.  And  I'm 
not  a  man  calculated  to  occupy  so  very  much  space  after  all. 
Let  me  potter  about  here  with  my  books  and  my  bibelots.  Don't 
worry  about  me,  I  shall  keep  quite  well,  I  promise  you.  Let  me 
hybernate  peacefully  until  the  spring,  anyhow.  I  have  plenty  of 
occupation.  Julius  is  going  to  amend  the  library  catalogue  with 
me,  and  there  are  those  chests  of  deeds,  and  order-books,  and 
diaries,  which  really  ought  to  be  looked  over.  As  it  appears 
pretty  certain  I  shall  be  the  last  of  the  family,  it  would  be  only 
civil,  I  think,  to  bestow  a  little  of  my  ample  leisure  upon  my 
forefathers,  and  set  down  some  more  or  less  comprehensive 
account  of  them  and  their  doings.  They  appear  to  have  been 
given  to  rather  dramatic  adventures. — Don't  you  worry,  you 
dear  sweet !  As  I  say,  let  me  hybernate  until  the  birds  of 
passage  come  and  the  young  leaves  are  green  in  the  spring. 
Then,  when  the  days  grow  long  and  bright,  the  sea  will 
begin  to  call  again,  and,  when  it  calls  you  and  I  will  pack 
and  go." 

And  Katherine  yielded,  being  convinced  that  Richard  could 
treat  his  own  case  best.  If  healing,  complete  and  radical,  was  to 
be  effected,  it  must  come  from  within  and   not  from  without. 


I 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  531 

Her  wisdom  was  to  wait  in  faith.  There  was  much  that  had 
never  been  told,  and  never  would  be  told.  ISIuch  which  had  not 
been  explained,  and  never  would  be  explained.  For,  notwith- 
standing the  very  gracious  relation  existing  between  herself  and 
Richard,  Katherine  realised  that  there  were  blank  spaces  not 
only  in  her  knowledge  of  his  past  action,  but  in  her  knowledge  of 
the  sentiments  which  now  animated  him.  As  from  a  far  country 
his  mind,  she  perceived,  often  travelled  to  meet  hers.  "There 
was  a  door  to  which  she  found  no  key  ;  "  but  Katherine,  happily, 
could  respect  the  individuality  even  of  her  best  beloved.  Unlike 
the  majority  of  her  sex  she  was  incapable  of  intrusion,  and  did 
not  make  affection  an  excuse  for  familiarity.  Love,  in  her 
opinion,  enjoins  obligations  of  service,  rather  than  confers  rights 
of  examination  and  direction.  She  had  learned  the  condition  in 
which  his  servants  had  found  Richard,  in  the  opera  box  of  the 
great  theatre  at  Naples,  lying  upon  the  floor,  unconscious,  his 
face  disfigured,  cut,  and  bleeding.  But  what  had  produced  this 
condition,  whether  accident  or  act  of  violence,  she  had  not  learned. 
She  had  also  learned  that  her  niece,  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  had 
stayed  at  the  villa  just  before  the  commencement  of  Richard's 
illness — he  merely  passing  his  days  there,  and  s[jending  his  nights 
on  board  the  yacht  in  the  harbour,  where,  no  doubt,  that  same 
illness  had  been  contracted.  But  she  resisted  the  inclination  to 
attempt  further  discovery.  She  even  resisted  the  inclination  to 
speculate  regarding  all  this.  What  Richard  might  elect  to  tell  her, 
that,  and  that  only,  would  she  know,  lest,  seeking  further,  bitter 
and  vindictive  thoughts  should  arise  in  her  and  mar  the  calm, 
pathetic  sweetness  of  the  present  and  her  deep,  abiding  joy  in  the 
recovery  of  her  so-long-lost  delight.  She  refused  to  go  behind 
the  fact — the  glad  fact  that  Richard  once  more  was  with  her, 
that  her  eyes  beheld  him,  her  ears  heard  his  voice,  her  hands 
met  his.  Every  little  act  of  thoughtful  care,  every  pretty  word  of 
half-playful  affection,  confirmed  her  thankfulness  and  made  the 
present  blest.  Even  this  somewhat  morbid  tendency  of  his  to 
shut  himself  away  from  the  observation  of  all  acquaintance, 
conferred  on  her  such  sweetly  exclusive  rights  of  intercourse  that 
she  could  not  greatly  quarrel  with  his  secluded  way  of  life.  As 
to  the  business  of  the  estate  and  household,  this  had  become  so 
much  a  matter  of  course  to  her  that  it  caused  her  but  small 
labour.  If  she  could  deal  with  it  when  Richard  was  estranged 
and  far  away,  very  surely  she  could  deal  with  it  now,  when  she 
had  but  to  open  the  door  of  that  vast,  silvery-tinted,  pensively 
fragrant,  niaiiy-winclowed  room,  and  entering,  among  its  many 
strange  and  costly  treasures,  find  him — a  treasure  as  strange,  and 


532  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

if  counted  by  her  past  suffering,  as  costly,  as  ever  ravished  and 
tortured  a  woman's  heart. 

And  so  it  came  about  that,  to  such  few  friends  as  she  received, 
Katherine  could  show  a  serene  countenance.  Shortly  before 
Christmas,  Miss  St.  Qucntin  came  to  Brockhurst ;  and  coming 
stayed,  adapting  herself  with  ready  tact  to  the  altered  conditions 
of  life  there.  Katherine  found  not  only  pleasure,  but  support, 
in  the  younger  woman's  presence,  in  her  devoted  yet  unexacting 
affection,  in  her  practical  ability,  and  in  the  sight  of  so  grace- 
ful a  creature  going  to  and  fro.  She  installed  her  guest  in 
the  Gun-Room  suite.  And,  by  insensible  degrees,  permitted 
Honoria  to  return  to  many  of  her  former  avocations  in 
connection  with  the  estate ;  so  that  the  young  lady  took  over 
much  of  the  outdoor  business,  riding  forth  almost  daily,  by 
herself  or  in  company  with  Julius  March,  to  superintend 
matters  of  building  or  repairing,  of  road-mending,  hedging, 
copsing,  or  forestry ;  and  not  infrequently  cheering  Chifney — a 
somewhat  sour-minded  man  just  now  and  prickly-tempered, 
since  Richard  asked  no  word  of  him  or  of  his  horses — by  visits 
to  the  racing-stables. 

"  I  had  better  step  down  and  have  a  crack  with  the  poor  old 
dear.  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  would  say,  "or  those  unlucky 
little  wretches  of  boys  will  catch  it  double  tides,  which  really  is 
rather  superfluous." 

And  all  the  while,  amid  her  very  varied  interests  and 
occupations,  remembrance  of  that  hidden,  twilight  life,  going 
forward  upstairs  in  the  well-known  rooms  which  she  now  never 
entered,  came  to  Honoria  as  some  perpetually  recurrent  and 
mournful  harmony,  in  an  otherwise  not  ungladsome  piece  of 
music,  might  have  come.  It  exercised  a  certain  dominion  over 
her  mind ;  so  that  Richard  Calmady,  though  never  actually  seen 
by  her,  was  never  wholly  absent  from  her  thought.  All  the 
orderly  routine  of  the  great  house,  all  the  day's  work  and  the 
sentiment  of  it,  was  subtly  influenced  by  awareness  of  the 
actuality  of  his  invisible  presence.  And  this  affected  her 
strongly,  causing  her  hours  of  repulsion  and  annoyance,  and 
again  hours  of  abounding,  if  reluctant  pity,  when'the  unnatural 
situation  of  this  man — young  as  herself,  endowed  with  a  fine 
intelligence,  an  aptitude  for  affairs,  the  craving  for  amusement 
common  to  his  age  and  class — and  the  pathos  inherent  in  that 
situation,  haunted  her  imagination.  His  self-inflicted  imprison- 
ment appeared  a  reflection  upon,  in  a  sense  a  reproach  to,  her 
own  freedom  of  soul  and  pleasant  liberty  of  movement.  And 
this  troubled  her.    It  touched  her  pride  somehow.    It  produced 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  533 

in  her  a  false  conscience,  as  though  she  were  guilty  of  an 
unkindness,  a  lack  of  considerateness  and  perfect  delicacy. 

"Whether  he  behaves  well  or  ill,  whether  he  is  good  or 
bad,  Richard  Calmady  invariably  takes  up  altogether  too  much 
room,"  she  would  tell  herself  half  angrily — to  find  herself  within 
half  an  hour,  under  plea  of  usefulness  to  his  mother,  warmly 
interested  in  some  practical  matter  from  which  Richard  Calmady 
would  derive,  at  least  indirectly,  distinct  advantage  and  benefit ! 

This,  then,  was  the  state  of  affairs  one  Saturday  afternoon 
late  in  February.  With  poor  Dickie  himself  the  day  had  been 
marked  by  superabundant  discouragement.  He  was  well  in 
body.  The  restfulness  of  one  quiet,  uneventful  week  following 
another  had  steadied  his  nerves,  repaired  the  waste  of  fever,  and 
restored  his  physical  strength.  But  along  with  this  return  of 
health  had  come  a  growing  necessity  to  lay  hold  of  some  idea, 
to  discover  some  basis  of  thought,  some  incentive  to  action, 
which  should  make  life  less  purposeless  and  unprofitable. 
Richard,  in  short,  was  beginning  to  generate  more  energy  than 
he  could  place.  The  old  order  had  passed  away,  and  no  new 
order  had,  as  yet,  effectively  disclosed  itself.  He  had  not 
formulated  all  this,  or  even  consciously  recognised  the  modifica- 
tion of  his  own  attitude.  Nevertheless  he  felt  the  gnawing  ache 
of  inward  emptiness.  It  effectually  broke  up  the  torpor  which 
had  held  him.  It  made  him  very  restless.  It  re-awoke  in  him 
an  inclination  to  speculation  and  experiment. 

Snow  had  fallen  during  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day,  and,  the 
surface  of  the  ground  being  frost-bound,  it,  though  by  no  means 
deep,  remained  unmelted.  The  whiteness  of  it,  given  back  by 
the  ceiling  and  pale  panelling  of  walls  of  the  Long  Gallery, 
notwithstanding  the  generous  fires  burning  in  the  two  ornate, 
high-ranging  chimney-places,  produced,  as  the  day  waned,  an 
effect  of  rather  stark  cheerlessness  in  the  great  room.  This  was 
at  once  in  unison  with  Richard's  somewhat  bleak  humour,  and 
calculated  to  increase  the  famine  of  it. 

All  clay  long  he  had  tried  to  stifle  the  cry  of  that  same  famine, 
that  same  hunger  of  unplaced  energy,  by  industrious  work.  He 
had  examined,  noted,  here  and  there  transcribed,  passages  from 
deeds,  letters,  order-books,  and  diaries  offering  first-hand  informa- 
tion regarding  former  generations  of  Calmadys.  It  happened 
that  studies  he  had  recently  made  in  contemporary  science, 
specially  in  obtaining  theories  of  biology,  had  brought  home  to 
him  what  tremendous  factors  in  the  development  and  fate  of  the 
individual  are  both  evolution  and  heredity.  At  first  idly,  and 
as  a  mere  pastime,  then  with  increasing  eagerness — in  the  vague 


534  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

hope  his  researches  might  throw  light  on  matters  of  moment  to 
himself  and  of  personal  application — he  had  tried  to  trace  out 
tastes  and  strains  of  tendency  common  to  his  ancestors.  But 
under  this  head  he  had  failed  to  make  any  very  notable  dis- 
coveries. For  these  courtiers,  soldiers,  and  sportsmen  were 
united  merely  by  the  obvious  characteristics  of  a  high-spirited, 
free-living  race.  They  were  raised  above  the  average  of  the 
country  gentry,  perhaps,  by  a  greater  appreciation  than  is 
altogether  conmion  of  literature  and  art.  But,  as  Richard  soon 
perceived,  it  was  less  any  persistent  peculiarity  of  mental  and 
physical  constitution,  than  a  similarity  of  outward  event  which 
united  them.  The  perpetually  repeated  chronicle  of  violence 
and  accident  which  he  read,  in  connection  with  his  people, 
intrigued  his  reason,  and  called  for  explanation.  Is  it  possible, 
he  began  to  ask  himself,  that  a  certain  heredity  in  incident,  in 
external  happening,  may  not  cling  to  a  race  ?  That  these  may  not 
by  some  strange  process  be  transmissible,  as  are  traits  of  character, 
temperament,  of  stature,  colouring,  feature,  or  face  ?  And  if  this 
— as  matter  of  speculation  merely — is  the  case,  must  there  not 
exist  some  antecedent  cause  to  which  could  be  referred  such 
persistent  effect  ?  Might  not  an  hereditary  fate  in  external  events 
take  its  rise  in  some  supreme  moral  or  spiritual  catastrophe, 
some  violation  of  law?  The  Greek  dramatists  held  it  was  so. 
The  writers  of  the  Old  Testament  held  it  was  so,  too. 

Sitting  at  the  low  writing-table,  near  the  blazing  fire,  that 
stark  whiteness  reflected  from  off  the  snow-covered  land  all 
around  him,  Richard  debated  this  point  with  himself.  He 
admitted  the  theory  was  not  scientific,  according  to  the  reasoning 
of  modern  physical  science.  It  approached  an  outlook  theological 
rather  than  rationalistic  ;  yet  he  could  not  deny  the  conception, 
admission.  The  vision  of  a  doomed  family  arose  before  him — 
starting  in  each  successive  generation  with  brilliant  prospects 
and  high  hope,  only  to  find  speedy  extinction  in  some  more  or 
less  brutal  form  of  death ;  a  race  dwindling,  moreover,  in  num- 
bers as  the  years  passed,  until  it  found  representation  in  a 
single  individual,  and  that  individual  maimed  and  incomplete ! 
Heredity  of  accident,  heredity  of  disaster,  finding  final  expression 
in  himself — this  confronted  Richard.  He  had  reckoned  himself, 
heretofore,  a  solitary  example  of  ill-fortune.  But,  mastering  the 
contents  of  these  records,  he  found  himself  far  from  solitary.  He 
merely  participated,  though  under  a  novel  form,  in  the  unlucky 
fate  of  all  the  men  of  his  race.  And  then  arose  the  question — 
to  him,  under  existing  circurnstances,  of  vital  importance — what 
stood  behind  all  that — blina  chance,  cynical  indifference,  wanton 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  535 

and  arbitrary  cruelty,  or  some  august,  far-reaching  necessity  of, 
as  yet,  unsatisfied  justice  ? 

Richard  pushed  the  crackling,  stiffly-folded  parchments,  the 
letters  frayed  and  yellow  with  age,  the  broken-backed,  discoloured 
diaries  and  order-books,  away  from  him,  and  sat,  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  his  forehead  in  his  hands,  thinking.  And  the  travail 
of  his  spirit  was  great,  as  it  needs  must  be,  at  times,  with  every 
human  being  who  dares  live  at  first,  not  merely  at  second  hand — 
who  dares  attempt  a  real,  and  not  merely  a  nominal  assent — 
who  dares  deal  with  earthly  existence,  the  amazing  problems  and 
complexities  of  it,  immediately,  refusing  to  accept — with  indolent 
timidity — tradition,  custom,  hearsay,  convenience,  as  his  guides. — 
Oh  !  for  some  sure  answering,  some  unimpeachable  assurance, 
some  revelation  not  relative  and  symbolic,  but  absolute;  some 
declaration  above  all  suspicion  of  cunningly-devised  opportunism, 
concerning  the  dealings  of  the  unknown  force  man  calls  God, 
with  the  animal  man  calls  man ! — And  then  Richard  turned 
upon  himself  contemptuously.  For  it  was  childish  to  cry  out 
thus.  The  heavens  were  dumb  above  him  as  the  snow-bound 
earth  was  dumb  beneath.  There  was  no  sign.  Never  had  been. 
Never  would  be,  save  in  the  fond  imaginations  of  religious 
enthusiasts,  crazed  by  superstition,  by  austerities  and  hysteria, 
duped  by  ignorance,  by  hypocrites  and  quacks. 

With  long-armed  adroitness  he  reached  down  and  picked  up 
those  light-made,  stunted  crutches,  slipped  from  his  chair  and 
adjusted  them.  For  a  long  while  he  had  used  them  as  a  matter 
of  course  without  criticism  or  thought.  But  now  they  produced 
in  him  a  swift  disgust.  His  hands,  grasping  the  lowest  crossbar 
of  them,  were  in  such  disproportionate  proximity  to  the  floor ! 
For  the  moment  he  was  disposed  to  fling  them  aside.  Then 
again  he  turned  upon  himself  with  scathing  contempt.  For  this 
too  was  childish.  What  did  the  use  of  them  matter,  since,  used 
or  not,  the  fact  of  his  crippled  condition  remained?  And  so, 
with  a  renewal  of  bitterness  and  active  rebellion,  lately  unknown 
to  him,  he  moved  away  down  the  great  room — past  bronze 
athlete  and  marble  goddess,  past  oriental  jars,  tall  as  himself, 
uplifted  on  the  squat,  carven,  ebony  stands,  past  strangely-painted, 
half-fearful,  laccjuer  cabinets,  past  porcelain  bowls  filled  with 
faint  sweetness  of  dried  rose  leaves,  bay,  lavender,  and  spice, 
past  trophies  of  savage  warfare  and,  hardly  less  savage,  civilised 
sport,  towards  the  wide  mullion-vindow  of  tlie  eastern  bay.  But 
just  before  reaching  it,  he  came  opposite  to  a  picture  by 
Velasquez,  set  on  an  easel  across  the  corner  of  the  room.  It 
represented  a  hideous  and  mis-shapen  dwarf,  holding  a  couple 


536  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  graceful  greyhounds  in  a  leash — an  unhappy  creature  who  had 
made  sport  for  the  household  of  some  Castilian  grandee,  and 
whose  gorgeous  garments,  of  scarlet  and  gold,  were  ingeniously 
designed  so  as  to  accentuate  the  physical  degradation  of  its 
contorted  person.  Richard  had  come,  of  late,  to  take  a  sombre 
pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  this  picture.  The  desolate  eyes, 
looking  out  of  the  marred  and  brutal  face,  met  his  own  with  a 
certain  claim  of  kinship.  There  existed  a  tragic  free-masonry 
between  himself  and  this  outcasted  being,  begotten  of  a  common 
knowledge,  and  common  experience.  As  a  boy  Richard  hated 
this  picture,  studiously  avoided  the  sight  of  it.  It  had  suggested 
comparisons  which  wounded  his  self-respect  too  shrewdly  and 
endangered  his  self-security.  He  hated  it  no  longer,  finding 
grim  solace,  indeed,  in  its  sad  society. 

And  it  was  thus,  in  silent  parley  with  this  rather  dreadful 
companion,    as   the   blear    February   twilight    descended    upon 
the  bare,  black  trees  and  snow-clad  land  without,  and  upon  the 
very  miscellaneous  furnishings   of  the   many-windowed   gallery 
within,  that  Julius  March  now  discovered  Richard  Calmady.     He 
had  returned,  across  the  park,  from  one  of  the  ancient  brick-and- 
timber  cottages  just  without  the  last  park  gate,  at  the  end  of 
Sandyfield  Church-lane.     A  labourer's  wife  was  dying,  painfully 
enough,  of  cancer ;  and  he  had  administered  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment to  her,  there,  in  her  humble  bed-chamber.     The  august 
promises   and   adorable    consolations    of    that   mysterious   rite 
remained  very  sensibly  present  to  him  on  his  homeward  way. 
His  spirit  was  uplifted  by  the  confirmation  of  the  divine  com- 
passion therein  perpetually  renewed,  perpetually  made  evident. 
And,  it  followed,  that  to  come  now  upon  Richard  Calmady  alone, 
here,  in  the  stark,  unnatural  pallor  of  the  winter  dusk,  holding 
silent  communion  with  that  long-ago  victim  of  merciless  practices 
and  depraved  tastes,  not  only  caused  him  a  painful  shock,  but 
also  moved  him  with  fervid  desire  to  offer  comfort  and  render 
help.     Yet,  what  to  say,  how  to  approach  Richard  without  risk 
of  seeming  officiousness  and  consequent  offence,  he  could  not 
tell.     The  young  man's  experiences  and  his  own  were  so  con- 
spicuously far  apart.     For  a  moment  he  stood  uncertain  and 
silent,  then  he  said  : — 

"  That  picture  always  fills  me  with  self-reproach." 
Richard  looked  round  with  a  certain  lofty  courtesy  by  no 
means  encouraging.  And,  as  he  did  so,  Julius  March  was  con- 
scious of  receiving  yet  another,  and  not  less  painful,  impres- 
sion. For  Richard's  face  was  very  still,  not  with  the  stillness  of 
repose,  but  with  that  of  fierce  emotion  held  resolutely  in  check, 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  537 

while  in  his  eyes  was  a  desolation  rivalling  that  of  the  eyes 
portrayed  by  the  great  Spanish  artist  upon  the  canvas  close  at 
hand. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  Brockhurst,  that  picture  used  to  hang 
in  the  study,"  he  continued,  by  way  of  explanation. 

"Ah !  I  see,  and  you  turned  it  out ! "  Richard  observed,  not 
without  an  inflection  of  scorn. 

"  Yes.  In  those  days  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  discriminate  very 
justly  between  refinement  of  taste  and  self-indulgent  fastidious- 
ness. While  pluming  myself  upon  an  exalted  standard  of  sensi- 
bility and  sentiment,  1  rather  basely  spared  myself  acquaintance 
with  that,  both  in  nature  and  in  art,  which  might  cause  me  distress 
or  disturbance  of  thought.  I  was  a  mental  valetudinarian,  in 
short.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  defect  of  moral  courage  and  charity 
in  relation  to  that  picture." 

Richard  shifted  his  position  slightly,  looked  fixedly  at  the 
canvas  and  then  down  at  his  own  hands  in  such  disproportionate 
proximity  to  the  floor. 

"Oh  !  you  were  not  to  blame,"  he  said.  "It  is  obviously  a 
thing  to  laugh  at,  or  run  from,  unless  you  happen  to  have  received 
a  peculiar  mental  and  physical  training.  Anyhow,  the  poor  devil 
has  found  his  way  home  now  and  come  into  port  safely  enough 
at  last !  " 

He  glanced  back  at  the  picture,  over  his  shoulder,  as  he 
moved  across  the  room. 

"  Perhaps  he's  even  found  a  trifle  of  genuine  sympathy — so 
don't  vex  your  righteous  soul  over  your  repudiation  of  him, 
my  dear  Julius.  The  lapses  of  the  virtuous  may  make,  in- 
directly, for  good.  And  your  instinct,  after  all,  was  both  the 
healthy  and  the  artistic  one.  Velasquez  ought  to  have  been 
inca{)able  of  putring  his  talent  to  such  vile  uses ;  and  the  first 
comer,  with  a  spark  of  true  philanthropy  in  him,  ought  to  have 
knocked  that  poor  little  monstrosity  on  the  head." 

Richard  came  to  the  writing-table,  glanced  at  the  papers 
which  encumbered  it,  made  for  an  arm-chair  drawn  up  beside 
the  fire. 

"Sit  down,  Julius,"  he  said.  "There  is  something  quite  else 
about  which  I  want  to  speak  to  you. — I  have  been  working 
through  all  these  documents,  and  they  give  rise  to  speculations 
neither  strictly  scientific  nor  strictly  orthodox,  yet  interesting  all 
the  same.  You  are  a  dealer  in  ethical  prfjljlcms.  I  wonder  if 
you  can  offer  any  solution  of  this  one,  of  which  the  basis  con- 
ceivably is  ethical.  As  to  these  various  owners  of  Jirockhurst — Sir 
Denzil,  the  builder  of  the  house,  is  a  delightful  person,  and  appears 


538  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

to  have  prospered  mightily  in  his  undertakings,  as  so  Uberal-minded 
and  ingenious  a  gentleman  had  every  right  to  prosper.  But  after 
him — from  the  time,  at  least,  of  his  grandson,  Thomas — everything 
— seems  to  have  gone  to  rather  howling  grief  here.  We  have 
nothing  but  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  These  become 
positively  monotonous  in  the  pertinacity  of  their  repetition.  Of 
course  one  may  argue  that  adventurous  persons  expose  them- 
selves to  an  uncommon  number  of  dangers,  and  consequently 
pay  an  uncommon  number  of  forfeits.  I  daresay  that  is  the 
reasonable  explanation.  Only  the  persistence  of  the  thing  gets 
hold  of  one  rather.  The  manner  of  their  dying  is  very  varied, 
yet  there  are  two  constant  quantities  in  each  successive  narrative, 
namely  violence  and  comparative  youth." 

Richard's  speech  had  become  rapid  and  imperative.  Now  he 
paused. 

"  Think  of  my  father's  death,  for  instance,"  he  said. 
His  narrow,  black  figure  crouched   together,  Julius  March 
knelt  on  one  knee  before  the  fire.     He  held  his  thin  hands  out- 
spread, so  as  to  keep  the  glow  of  the  burning  logs  from  his  face. 
He  was  deeply  moved,  debating  a  certain  matter  with  himself. 

"  To  all  questions  supremely  worth  having  answered,  there  is 
no  answer — I  take  that  for  granted,"  the  young  man  continued. 
"  And  yet  one  is  so  made  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  go  on  ask- 
ing. I  can't  help  wanting  to  get  at  the  root  of  this  queer  recur- 
rence of  accident,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  which  clings  to  my  people. 
I  can't  help  wanting  to  make  out  whether  there  was  any  psycho- 
logical moment  which  determined  the  future,  and  started  them 
definitely  on  the  down-grade.  What  happened — that's  what  I 
want  to  arrive  at — what  happened  at  that  moment?  Had  it 
any  reasonable  and  legitimate  connection  with  all  which  has 
followed?" 

As  he  held  them  out-spread,  between  his  face  and  the  glowmg 
fire,  Julius  March's  hands  trembled.  He  found  himself  con- 
fronted by  a  situatior-  which  he  had  long  foreseen,  long  and 
earnestly  prayed  to  avoid.  The  responsibility  was  so  great  of 
either  giving  or  withholding  the  answer,  as  he  knew  it,  to  that 
question  of  Dickie's.  A  way  of  rendering  possible  help  opened 
before  him.  But  it  was  a  way  beset  with  difficulties,  a  way  at  once 
fantastic  and  coarsely  realistic,  a  way  along  which  the  sublime 
and  the  ridiculous  jostled  each  other  with  somewhat  undignified 
closeness  of  association,  a  way  demanding  childlike  faith,  not  to 
say  childish  credulity,  coupled  with  a  great  fearlessness  and  self- 
abnegation  before  ever  a  man's  steps  could  be  profitably  set  in 
it.    If  presented  to  Richard,  would  he  not  turn  angrily  from  it  as 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  539 

an  insult  offered  to  his  intellect  and  his  breeding  alike  ?  Indeed, 
the  hope  of  effecting  good  showed  very  thin.  The  danger  of  pro- 
voking evil  bulked  very  big.  What  was  his  duty  ?  He  suffered 
an  agony  of  indecision.  And  again  with  a  slight  inflection  of 
mockery  in  his  tone,  Richard  spoke. 

"  All  blind  chance,  Julius  ?  I  declare  I  get  a  little  weary  of 
this  Deity  of  yours.  He  neglects  His  business  so  flagrantly.  He 
really  is  rather  scandalously  much  of  an  absentee.  And  He  would 
be  so  welcome  if  He  would  condescend  to  deal  a  trifle  more 
openly  with  one,  and  satisfy  one's  intelligence  and  moral  sense. 
If,  for  instance,  He  would  afford  me  some  information  regarding 
this  same  psychological  moment  which  I  need  so  badly  just  now 
as  a  peg  to  hang  a  theory  of  causality  upon.  I  am  ambitious — 
as  much  in  the  interests  of  His  reputation  as  in  those  of  my  own 
curiosity — to  get  at  the  logic  of  the  affair,  to  get  at  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  it,  and  lay  my  finger  on  the  spot  where  differentia- 
tion sets  in." 

Julius  March  stood  upright.  Richard's  scorn  hurt  him.  It 
also  terminated  his  indecision.  For  a  little  space  he  looked  out 
into  the  stark  whiteness  of  the  snowy  dusk,  and  then  down  at  the 
young  man,  leaning  back  in  the  low  chair,  there  close  before  him. 
To  Julius'  short-sighted  eyes,  in  the  uncertain  light,  Dickie's  face 
bore  compelling  resemblance  to  Lady  Calmady's.  This  touched 
him  with  the  memory  of  much,  and  he  went  back  on  the 
thought  of  the  divine  compassion,  perpetually  renewed,  per- 
petually made  evident  in  the  Eucharistic  Sacrifice.  Man  may 
rail,  yet  God  is  strong  and  faithful  to  bless.  Perhaps  that  way 
was  neither  too  fantastic,  nor  too  humble,  after  all,  for  Richard 
to  walk  in. 

"  Has  no  knowledge  of  the  received  legend  about  this  subject 
ever  reached  you  ?  " 

"  No — never — not  a  word." 

"  I  became  acquainted  with  it  accidentally,  long  ago,  before 
your  birth.  It  is  inadmissible,  according  to  modern  canons  of 
thought,  as  such  legends  usually  are.  And  events,  subsequent 
to  my  acquaintance  with  it,  conferred  on  it  so  singular  and  pain- 
ful a  significance  that  I  kept  my  knowledge  to  myself.  Perhaps 
when  you  grew  up  I  ought  to  have  put  you  in  possession  of  the 
facts.     They  touch  you  very  nearly." 

Richard  raised  his  eyebrows, 

"  Inde(;d,"  he  .said  coMly. 

"  Put  a  fitting  ojjportunity — at  least,  so  I  judged,  being,  I 
own,  backward  and  reluctant  in  the  matter — never  presented 
itself     In  this,  as  in  much  else,  I  fear  I  have  betrayed  my  trust 


540  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  proved  an  unprofitable  servant — if  so  may  God  forgive 
me." 

"It  would  have  gone  hard  with  Brockhurst  without  you, 
Julius,"  Richard  said,  a  sudden  softening  in  his  tone. 

"I  will  bring  you  the  documents  the  last  thing  to-night, 
when — your  mother  has  left  you.  They  are  best  read,  perhaps, 
in  silence  and  alone." 

CHAPTER  VI 

A    LITANY    OF    THE    SACKED    HEART 

RICHARD  drew  himself  up  on  to  the  wide,  cushioned 
bench  below  the  oriel-window.  The  February  day  was 
windless  and  very  bright.  And  although  in  sheltered,  low-lying 
places,  where  the  frost  held,  the  snow  still  lingered,  in  the  open 
it  had  already  disappeared,  and  that  without  unsightliness  of 
slush — shrinking  and  vanishing,  cleanly  burned  up  and  absorbed 
by  the  genial  heat.  A  sabbath-day  restfulness  held  the  whole 
land.  There  was  no  movement  of  labour,  either  of  man  or 
beast.  And  a  kindred  restfulness  pervaded  the  house.  The 
rooms  were  vacant.  None  passed  to  and  fro.  For  it  so 
happened  that  good  Mr.  Caryll's  successor,  the  now  rector  of  Sandy- 
field,  had  been  called  away  to  deliver  certain  charity  sermons  at 
Westchurch,  and  that  to-day  Julius  March  officiated  in  his  stead. 
Therefore  Lady  Calmady  and  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  the  major 
part  of  the  Brockhurst  household,  had  repaired  by  carriage  or  on 
foot  to  the  little,  squat,  red-brick,  Georgian  church  whose  two 
bells  rang  out  so  friendly  and  fussy  an  admonition  to  the  faithful 
to  gather  within  its  walls. 

Richard  had  the  house  to  himself  And  this  accentuation  of 
solitude,  combined  with  wider  space  wherein  he  could  range 
without  fear  of  observation,  was  far  from  unwelcome  to  him. 
Last  night  he  had  untied  the  tag  of  rusty,  black  ribbon  binding 
together  the  packet  of  tattered,  dog's-eared,  little  chap-books 
which,  for  so  long,  had  reposed  in  the  locked  drawer  of  Julius 
March's  study  table  beneath  the  guardianship  of  the  bronze 
pieta.  \\'ith  very  conflicting  feelings  he  had  mastered  the 
contents  of  those  same  untidy,  little  volumes,  and  learned  the 
sordid,  and  probably  fabulous,  tale  set  forth  in  them  in  meanest 
vehicle  of  jingling  verse.  Vulgarly  told  to  catch  the  vulgar  ear, 
pandering  to  the  popular  superstitions  of  a  somewhat  ignoble 
age,  it  proved  repugnant  enough — as  Julius  had  anticipated — 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  541 

both  to  Richard's  reason  and  to  his  taste.  The  critical  faculty 
rejected  it  as  an  explanation  absurdly  inadequate.  The  cause 
was  wholly  disproportionate  to  the  effect,  as  though  the  mouse 
should  bring  forth  a  mountain  instead  of  the  mountain  a  mouse. 
At  least  that  was  how  the  matter  struck  Richard  at  first.  For  the 
story  was,  after  all,  as  he  told  himself,  but  a  commonplace  of 
life  in  every  civilised  community.  Many  a  man  sins  thus,  and 
many  a  woman  suffers,  and  many  bastards  are  yearly  born  into  the 
world  without — perhaps  unfortunately — subsequent  manifesta- 
tion of  the  divine  wrath  and  signal  chastisement  of  the  sinner,  or  of 
his  legitimate  heirs,  male  or  female.  Affiliation  orders  are  as  well 
known  to  magistrates'  clerks,  as  are  death-certificates  of  children 
bearing  the  maiden-name  of  their  mother  to  those  of  the  registrar. 

All  that  Richard  could  dispose  of,  if  with  a  decent  deploring 
of  the  frequency  of  it,  yet  composedly  enough.  But  there 
remained  that  other  part  of  it.  And  this  he  could  not  dispose 
of  so  cursorily.  His  own  unhappy  deformity,  it  is  true,  was 
amply  accounted  for  on  lines  quite  other  than  the  fulfilment 
of  prophecy,  offering,  as  it  did,  example  of  a  class  of  pre-natal 
accident  which,  if  rare,  is  still  admittedly  recurrent  in  the  annals 
of  obstetrics  and  embryology.  Nevertheless,  the  foretelling  of 
that  strange  Child  of  Promise,  whose  outward  aspect  and  the 
circumstances  of  whose  birth — as  set  forth  in  the  sorry  rhyme 
of  the  chap-book — bore  such  startling  resemblance  to  his  own, 
impressed  him  deeply.  It  astonished,  it,  in  a  sense,  appalled 
him.  For  it  came  so  very  near.  It  looked  him  so  insistently  in 
the  face.  It  laid  strong  hands  on  him  from  out  the  long  past, 
claiming  him,  associating  itself  imperatively  with  him,  asserting, 
whether  he  would  or  no,  the  actuality  and  inalienability  of  its 
relation  to  himself.  Science  might  pour  contempt  on  that  relation, 
exposing  the  absurdity  of  it  both  from  the  moral  and  physical 
point  of  view.  But  sentiment  held  other  language.  And  sa 
did  that  nobler  morality  which  takes  its  rise  in  considerations 
spiritual  rather  than  social  and  economic ;  and  finds  the  origins 
and  ultimates  alike,  not  in  things  seen  and  temporal,  but  in  things 
unseen  and  eternal — things  which,  though  they  tarry  long  for 
accomplishment,  can  neither  change,  nor  be  denied,  nor,  short  of 
accomplishment,  can  pass  away. 

And  it  was  this  aspect  of  the  whole,  strange  matter — the 
thought,  namely,  of  that  same  Child  of  Promise  who,  predestined 
to  bear  the  last  and  heaviest  stroke  of  retributive  justice,  should, 
bearing  it  rightly,  bring  salvation  to  his  race — which  ol)tained 
with  Richard  on  the  fair  Sunday  morning  in  question.  It  refused 
to  quit  him.     It  affected  him  through  all  his  being.      It  appealed 


543  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

to  the  poetry,  the  idealism,  of  his  nature  —  a  poetry  and 
idealism  not  dead,  as  he  had  bitterly  reckoned  them,  though 
sorely  wounded  by  ill-living  and  by  the  disastrous  issues  of  his 
passion  for  Helen  de  Vallorbes.  He  seemed  to  apprehend 
the  approach  of  some  fruitful,  far-ranging,  profoundly-reconcil- 
ing and  beneficent  event.  As  in  the  theatre  at  Naples  when 
Morabita  sang,  and,  to  his  fever-stricken,  brain-sick  fancy  the 
dull-coloured  multitude  in  the  parterre  murmured,  buzzing 
remonstrant  as  angry  swarming  bees,  so  now  a  certain  exalta- 
tion of  feeling,  exaltation  of  hope,  came  upon  him. — Yet 
having  grown,  through  determined  rebellion  and  unlovely 
experience,  not  a  little  distrustful  of  all  promise  of  good,  he 
turned  on  himself  bitterly  enough,  asking  if  he  would  never  learn 
to  profit  by  hardly-bought,  practical  knowledge?  If  he  would 
never  contrive  to  cast  the  simpleton  wholly  out  of  him  ?  He 
had  been  fooled  many  times,  fooled  there  at  Naples  to  the  point 
of  unpardonable  insult  and  degradation.  What  so  probable  as 
that  he  would  be  fooled  again,  now  ? 

And  so,  in  effort  to  shake  off  both  the  dommion  of  unfounded 
hope,  and  the  gnawing  ache  of  inward  emptiness  which  made 
that  hope  at  once  so  cruel  and  so  dear,  as  the  sound  of  wheels 
dying  away  along  the  lime  avenue  assured  him  that  the  goodly 
company  of  church-goers  had,  verily  and  indeed,  departed,  he 
set  forth  on  a  pilgrimage  through  the  great,  silent  house.  Passing 
through  the  two  libraries,  the  ante-chamber  and  state  drawing- 
room — with  its  gilded  furniture,  fine  pictures  and  tapestries — 
he  reached  the  open  corridor  at  the  stair-head.  Here  the 
polished,  oak  floor,  the  massive  balusters,  and  tall,  carven 
newel-posts — each  topped  by  a  guardian  griffin,  long  of  tail, 
ferocious  of  beak,  and  sharp  of  claw — showed  with  a  certain 
sober  mirthfulness  in  the  pleasant  light.  For,  through  all  the 
great  windows  of  the  eastern  front,  the  sun  slanted  in  obliquely. 
While  in  the  Chapel-Room  beyond,  situated  in  the  angle  bf  the 
house  and  thus  enjoying  a  southern  as  well  as  eastern  aspect, 
Richard  found  a  veritable  carnival  of  misty  brightness  ;  so  that  he 
moved  across  to  the  oriel-window — whose  grey  stone  mullions 
and  carved  transoms  showed  delicately  mellow  of  tone  between 
the  glittering,  leaded  panes — in  a  glory  of  welcoming  warmth  and 
sunlight.  Frost  and  snow  might  linger  in  the  hollows,  but  here 
in  the  open,  on  the  upland,  spring  surely  had  already  come. 

With  the  help  of  a  brass  ring,  riveted  by  a  stanchion  into  the 
space  of  panelling  below  the  stone  window-sill — placed  there  long 
ago,  when  he  was  a  little  lad,  to  serve  him  in  such  case  as  the 
present — Richard  drew  himself  up  on  to  tlie  cushioned  bench. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  543 

He  unfastened  one  of  the  narrow,  curved,  iron-framed  casements, 
and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  sill,  looked  out.  The  air  was  mild. 
The  smell  of  the  earth  was  sweet,  with  a  cleanly,  wholesome 
sweetness.  The  sunshine  covered  him.  And  somehow,  whether 
he  would  or  no,  hope  reasserted  its  dominion  ;  and  that  exaltation 
of  feeling  entered  into  possession  of  him  once  again,  as  he  rested, 
gazing  away  over  the  familiar  home  scene,  over  this  land  which, 
as  far  as  sight  carried,  had  belonged  to  his  people  these  many 
generations,  and  was  now  his  own. 

Directly  below,  at  the  foot  of  the  descending  steps  of  the 
main  entrance,  lay  the  square,  red-walled  space  of  gravel  and  of 
turf.  He  looked  at  it  curiously,  for  there,  with  the  maiming  and 
death  of  Thomas  Calmady's  bastard,  if  legend  said  truly,  all  this 
tragic  history  of  disaster  had  begun.  There,  too,  the  Clown, 
racehorse  of  merry  name  and  mournful  memory,  had  paid  the 
penalty  of  wholly  involuntary  transgression  just  thirty  years  ago. 
That  last  was  a  rather  horrible  incident,  of  which  Richard  never 
cared  to  think.  Chifney  had  told  him  about  it  once,  in  connection 
with  the  parentage  of  Verdigris — had  told  him  just  by  chance. 
To  think  of  it,  even  now,  made  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat.  Across 
the  turf — offering  quaint  contrast  to  those  somewhat  bloody 
memories — the  peacocks,  in  all  their  bravery  of  royal  blue-purple, 
living  green  and  gold,  led  forth  their  sober-clad  mates.  They 
had  come  out  from  the  pepper-pot  summer-houses  to  sun 
themselves.  They  stepped  mincingly,  with  a  worldly  and 
disdainful  grace ;  and,  reaching  the  gravel,  their  resplendent 
trains  swept  the  rounded  pebbles,  making  a  small,  dry,  rattling 
sound,  which,  so  deep  was  the  surrounding  quiet,  asserted  itself 
to  the  extent  of  saluting  Richard's  ears.  Beyond  the  red  wall  the 
parallel  lines  of  the  elm  avenue  swept  down  to  the  blue  and  silver 
levels  of  the  Long  Water,  the  alder  copses  bordering  which 
showed  black-purple,  and  the  reed-beds  rusty  as  a  fox,  against 
thin  stretches  of  still  unmelted  snow.  The  avenue  climbed  the 
farther  ascent  to  the  wide  arc  hway  of  the  red  and  grey  gate-house, 
just  short  of  the  top  of  the  long  ridge  of  bare  moorland.  The  grass 
slopes  of  the  park,  to  the  left,  were  backed  by  the  dark,  sawlike 
edge  of  the  fir  forest  ;  and  a  soft  gloom  of  oak  woods,  grey-brown 
and  mottled  as  a  lizard's  belly  and  back,  closed  the  end  of  the 
valley  eastward.  On  the  right  the  terraced  gardens,  with  their 
ranges  of  glittering  conservatories,  fell  away  to  the  sombre  pond 
in  the  valley,  home  of  loudly-discoursing  com[)anies  of  ducks. 
The  gentle  hillside  above  was  clothed  by  plantations,  and  by  a 
grove  of  ancient  beech  trees,  whose  pale,  smooth  boles  stood  out 
from  among  undergrowth  of  lustrous  hollies  and  the  warm  russet 


544  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  fallen  leaves.  And  over  it  all  brooded  the  restfulness  of  the 
sabbath,  and  the  gladness  of  a  fair  and  equal  light. 

And  the  charm  of  the  scene  worked  upon  Richard,  not  with 
any  heat  of  excitement,  but  with  a  temperate  and  reasonable 
grace.  For  the  spirit  of  it  all  was  a  spirit  of  temperance,  of 
moderation,  of  secure  tranquillity  —  a  spirit  stoic  rather  than 
epicurean,  ascetic  rather  than  hedonic ;  yet  generous,  spacious, 
nobly  reasonable,  giving  ample  scope  for  very  sincere,  if  soberly- 
clad  pleasures,  and  for  activities  by  no  means  despicable  or 
unmanly,  though  of  a  modest,  unostentatious  sort.  Richard  had 
tried  not  a  few  desperate  adventures,  had  conformed  his  thought 
and  action  to  not  a  few  glaring  patterns,  rushing  to  violences  of 
extreme  colour,  extreme  white  and  black.  All  that  had  proved 
pre-eminently  unsuccessful,  a  most  poisonous  harvest  of  Dead 
Sea  fruit.  What,  he  began  to  ask  himself,  if  he  made  an  effort 
to  conform  it  to  the  pattern  actually  presented  to  him — mellow, 
sun-visited,  with  the  brave  red  of  weather-stained  masonry  in  it, 
blue  and  silver  of  water  and  sky,  lustre  of  sturdy  hollies,  as  well 
as  the  solemnity  of  leafless  woods,  finger  of  frost  in  the  hollows, 
and  bleakness  of  snow  ? 

And,  as  he  sat  meditating  thus,  breathing  the  clear  air,  feel- 
ing the  tempered,  yet  genial,  sun-heat,  many  questions  began 
to  resolve  themselves.  He  seemed  to  look — as  down  a  long, 
cloudy  vista — beyond  the  tumult  and  unruly  clamour,  the  way- 
ward resistance  and  defiant  sinning,  the  craven  complainings, 
the  ever-repeated  suspicions  and  misapprehensions  of  man,  away 
into  the  patient,  unalterable  purposes  of  God.  And  looking,  for 
the  moment,  into  those  purposes,  he  saw  this  also — namely  that 
sorrow,  pain,  and  death  are  sweet  to  whosoever  dares,  instead 
of  fighting  with  or  flying  from  them,  to  draw  near,  to  examine 
closely,  to  inquire  humbly,  into  their  nature  and  their  function. 
He  began  to  perceive  that  these  three  reputed  enemies,  hated 
and  feared  of  all  men,  are,  after  all,  the  fashioners  and  teachers 
of  humanity ;  to  whom  it  is  given  to  keep  hearts  pure,  godly,  and 
compassionate,  to  purge  away  the  dross  of  pride,  hardness,  and 
arrogance,  to  break  the  iron  bands  of  ambition,  self-love,  and 
vanity,  to  purify  by  endurance  and  by  charity,  welding  together 
— as  with  the  cunning  strokes  of  the  master-craftsman's  hammer — 
the  innumerable  individual  atoms  into  a  corporate  whole,  of  fair 
form,  of  suj)reme  excellence  of  proportion,  the  image  and  ex- 
ample of  a  perfect  brotherhood,  of  a  republic  more  firmly  based 
and  more  beneficent  than  even  that  pictured  by  the  divine  Plato 
himself — since  that  was  consolidated  by  the  exclusion,  this  by  the 
inclusion  and  pacification  of  those  three  things  which  men  most 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  545 

dread. — Perceived  that,  without  the  guiding  and  chastening  of 
these  three  lovely  terrors,  humanity  would,  indeed,  wax  wanton, 
and  this  world  become  the  merriest  court  of  hell,  lust  and  cor- 
ruption have  it  all  their  own  foul  way,  the  flesh  triumph,  and  all 
bestial  things  come  forth  to  flaunt  themselves  gaudily,  greedily, 
without  remonstrance  and  without  shame  in  the  light  of  day. — 
Perceived,  in  these  three,  a  Trinity  of  Holy  Spirits,  bearing  for- 
ever the  message  of  the  divine  mercy  and  forgiveness. — Per- 
ceived how,  of  necessity,  only  the  Man  of  Sorrows  can  truly  be 
the  Son  of  God. 

And,  perceiving  all  this,  Richard's  attitude  towards  his  own 
unhappy  deformity  began  to  suffer  modification.  The  sordid, 
yet  extravagant,  chap-book  legend  no  longer  outraged  either  his 
moral  or  his  scientific  sense.  He  recalled  his  emotions  in  the 
theatre  at  Naples  when  Morabita  sang,  remembering  how  wholly 
welcome  had  then  been  to  him  that  imagined  approaching-act 
of  retributive  justice.  He  recalled,  too,  the  going  forth  of  love 
towards  his  supposed  executioners  which  he  had  experienced,  his 
reverence  for,  and  yearning  towards,  the  dull-coloured  working- 
bees  of  the  parterre.  How  he  had  longed  to  be  at  one  with 
them,  partaker  of  their  corporate  action  and  corporate  strength  ! 
How  he  had  rejoiced  in  the  conviction  that  the  final  issues  are 
subject  to  their  ruling,  that  the  claims  of  want  are  stronger  than 
those  of  wealth,  that  labour  is  more  honourable  than  sloth, 
intelligence  more  enduring  than  privilege,  liberty  more  abiding 
than  tyranny,  the  idea  of  equality,  of  fellowship,  more  excellent 
than  the  aristocratic  idea,  that  of  born  master  and  of  born  serf! 
And  both  that  welcome  of  the  accomplishment  of  a  signal  act  of 
justice,  and  that  desire  to  participate  in  the  eternal  strength  of 
the  children  of  labour  as  against  the  ephemeral  and  fictitious 
strength  of  the  children  of  idleness  and  wealth,  found  strange 
confirmation  in  the  cha[)-book  legend. 

For  it  seemed  to  Richard  that,  taking  all  that  singular  matter 
both  of  prophecy  and  of  cure  simply — as  believers  take  some 
half-miraculous,  scripture  tale — he  had  already,  in  his  (jwn  person, 
in  right  of  the  physical  uncomeliness  of  it,  paid  part,  at  all 
events,  of  the  price  demanded  by  the  Eternal  Justice  for  his 
ancestors'  sinning  and  for  his  own.  It  was  not  needful  that  the 
bees  should  swarm  and  the  duIl-cx)loured  mullitude  revenge  itself 
on  the  indolent,  full-fed  larvai  peopling  the  angular  honey-cells, 
as  far  as  he,  Richard  ('almady,  was  concerned.  That  revenge  had 
been  taken  long  ago,  in  a  mysterious  and  rather  terrible  manner, 
before  his  very  birth.  ^Vhile,  in  the  stern  denunciation,  the 
adhering  curse,  of  the  outraged  and  so -soon -to- be -childless 

35 


546  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mother,  he  found  the  just  and  age-old  protest,  the  patient  faith 
in  the  eventual  triumph  of  the  proletariat — of  the  defenceless  poor 
as  against  the  callous  self-seeking  and  sensuality  of  the  securely 
buttressed  rich.  By  the  fact  of  his  deformity  he  was  emancipated 
from  the  delusions  of  his  class ;  was  made  one,  in  right  of  the 
suffering  and  humiliation  of  it,  with  the  dull-coloured  multitudes 
whose  corporate  voice  declares  the  ultimate  verdict,  who  are  the 
architects  and  judges  of  civilisation,  of  art,  even  of  religion,  even, 
in  a  degree,  of  nature  herself.  Salvation,  according  to  the  sorry 
yet  inspiring  rhyme  of  the  chap-book,  was  contingent  upon  pre- 
cisely this  recognition  of  brotherhood  with,  and  practice  of  will- 
ing service  towards,  all  maimed  and  sorrowful  creatures.  His 
America  was  here  or  nowhere,  his  vocation  clearly  indicated, 
his  work  immediate  and  close  at  hand. 

How  the  Eternal  Justice  might  see  fit  to  deal  with  other 
souls,  why  he  had  been  singled  out  for  so  peculiar  and  con- 
spicuous a  fate,  Richard  did  not  pretend  to  say.  All  that  had 
become  curiously  unimportant  to  him.  For  he  had  ceased  to 
call  that  fate  a  cruel  one.  It  had  changed  its  aspect.  It  had 
come  suddenly  to  satisfy  both  his  conscience  and  his  imagina- 
tion. With  a  movement  at  once  of  wonder  and  of  deep-seated 
thankfulness,  he,  for  the  first  time,  held  out  his  hands  to  it, 
accepting  it  as  a  comrade,  pledging  himself  to  use  rather  than  to 
spurn  it.  He  looked  at  it  steadfastly  and,  so  looking,  found  it 
no  longer  abhorrent  but  of  mysterious  virtue  and  efficacy,  endued 
with  power  to  open  the  gates  of  a  way,  closed  to  most  men,  into 
the  heart  of  humanity,  which,  in  a  sense,  is  nothing  less  than  the 
heart  of  Almighty  God  Himself.  It  was  as  though,  like  the 
saint  of  old,  daring  to  kiss  the  scabs  and  sores  of  the  leper, 
he  found  himself  gazing  on  the  divine  lineaments  of  the  risen 
Christ.  And  this  brought  to  him  a  sense  of  almost  awed  repose. 
It  released  him  from  the,  vicious  circle  of  self,  of  sharp-toothed 
disappointment  and  leaden-heavy  discouragement,  in  which  he 
had  so  long  fruitlessly  turned.  He  seem.ed  consciously  to 
slough  off  the  foul  and  ragged  garment  of  the  past  and  all  its 
base,  unprofitable  memories,  as  the  snake  sloughs  off  her  old 
skin  in  the  warm  May  weather  and  glides  forth,  glittering,  in  a 
coat  of  untarnished,  silver  mail.  The  whole  complexion  of  his 
thought  regarding  his  personal  disfigurement  was  changed. 

Not  that  he  flattered  himself  the  discomfort,  the  daily  vexa- 
tion and  impediment  of  it,  had  passed  away.  On  the  contrary 
these  very  actually  remained,  and  would  remain  to  the  end. 
And  the  consequences  they  entailed  remained  also,  the  restric- 
tions and  deprivations  they  inflicted.     They  put  many  things. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  547 

dear  to  every  sane  and  healthy-minded  man,  hopelessly  out  of 
his  reach,  very  much  upon  the  shelf.  Love  and  marriage  were 
shelved  thus,  in  his  opinion,  let  alone  lesser  and  more  ephemeral 
joys.  Only  the  ungrudging  acceptance  of  the  denial  of  those 
joys,  whether  small  or  great,  was  a  vital  part  of  that  idea  to  the 
evolution  of  which  he  now  dedicated  himself — that  Whole  which, 
in  process  of  its  evolution,  would  make  for  a  sober  and  temperate 
well-being,  formed  on  the  pattern,  sober  yet  nobly  spacious, 
very  fair  and  wholesome,  of  the  sun-visited  landscape  there  with- 
out. He  had  just  got  to  discipline  himself  into  harmony  with  the 
idea  newly  revealed  to  him.  And  that,  as  he  told  himself,  not 
without  a  sense  of  the  humour  of  the  situation  in  certain  of  its 
aspects,  meant  in  more  than  one  department,  plenty  of  work  ! — ■ 
And  he  had  to  spend  himself  and  go  on,  through  good  report  and 
ill,  through  gratitude  and,  if  needs  be,  through  abuse  and  detrac- 
tion, still  spending  himself,  actively,  untiringly,  in  the  effort  to 
make  some  one  person — it  hardly  mattered  whom,  but  for  choice, 
those  who  like  himself  had  been  treated  unhandsomely  by  nature 
or  by  accident — just  a  trifle  happier  day  by  day. 

But,  while  Richard  rested  thus  in  the  quiet  sunshine,  he  lost 
count  of  time.  High-noon  came  and  passed,  finding  and  leaving 
him  in  absorbed  contemplation  of  his  own  thought.  At  last  a 
barking  of  dogs,  and  the  sound  of  wheels  away  on  the  north  side 
of  the  house,  broke  up  the  silence.  Then  a  faint  echo  of  voices, 
a  boy's  laughter  in  the  great  hall  below.  Then  footsteps,  which 
he  took  to  be  Lady  Calmady's,  coming  lightly  up  the  grand 
staircase.  At  the  stair-head  those  footsteps  paused  for  a  little 
space,  as  though  in  indecision  whither  to  turn.  And  Richard, 
[)ushed  by  an  impulse  of  considerateness  somewhat,  it  must  be 
owned,  new  to  him,  called  : — 

"  Mother,  is  that  you?     Do  you  want  me?     I'm  here." 

Whereat  the  footsteps  came  forward,  in  at  the  open  door  and 
through  the  soft  glory  of  the  all-pervading  sunshine,  with  an  effect 
of  gentle  urgency  and  haste.  Katherine's  grey,  silk  pelisse  was 
unfastened,  showing  the  grey,  silk  gown,  its  floating  ribbons, 
pretty  frills  and  flounces,  beneath.  Every  detail  of  her  dress  was 
very  fresh  and  very  finished,  a  demure  daintiness  in  it,  from  the 
topmost,  grey  plume  and  upstanding,  velvet  bow  of  her  bonnet  to 
the  pretty  shoes  upon  her  feet.  Along  with  a  lace  handkerchief 
and  her  church  books,  she  carried  a  hunrh  of  long -stalked 
violets.  Her  face  was  delicately  flushed,  a  great  surprise,  touch- 
ing upon  anxiety,  tempering  the  c|uick  pleasure  of  her  expression. 

"My  dearest,"  she  said,  "this  is  as  delightful  as  it  is  un- 
expected.    ^Vhat  brings  you  here?" 


548  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  Richard  smiled  at  her  without  reserve,  no  longer  as 
though  putting  a  force  upon  himself  or  of  set  purpose,  but 
naturally,  spontaneously,  as  one  who  entertains  pleasant  thoughts. 
He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  a  certain  courtliness  and 
reverent  fervour. 

**  I  came  to  look  for  something  here,"  he  said,  "  which  I  have 
looked  for  many  times  and  in  very  various  places,  yet  never 
somehow  managed  to  find." 

But  Katherine,  at  once  tenderly  charmed  and  rendered  yet 
more  anxious  by  a  quality  in  his  manner  and  his  speech  un- 
familiar to  her,  the  purport  of  which  she  failed  at  once  to  gauge, 
answered  him  literally. 

"  My  dearest,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  would  have  looked 
for  it  before  I  went  to  church,  and  saved  you  the  trouble  of  the 
journey  from  the  gallery  here." 

"  Oh  !  the  journey  wasn't  bad  for  me,  I  rather  enjoyed  it," 
Dickie  said.  "  And  then  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you've  spent  the 
better  part  of  your  dear  life  in  looking  for  that  same  something 
which  I  could  never  manage  to  find  !  Poor  sweet  mother,  no 
thanks  to  me,  so  far,  that  you  haven't  utterly  worn  yourself  out 
in  the  search  for  it." — He  paused,  and  gazed  away  out  of  the 
open  casement. — "  But  I  have  a  good  hope  that's  all  over  and 
done  with  now,  and  that  at  last  I've  found  the  thing  myself." 

And  Katherine,  still  charmed,  still  anxious,  looked  down  at 
him  wondering,  for  there  was  a  perceptible  under  -  current  of 
emotion  beneath  the  lightness  of  his  speech. 

"  However,  all  that  will  keep,"  he  continued. — "  How  did 
you  enjoy  your  church?  Did  dear  old  Julius  distinguish 
himself?     How  did  he  preach?" 

And  Katherine,  still  wondering,  again  answered  literally. 

"Very  beautifully,"  she  said,  "with  an  unusual  force  and 
pathos.  He  took  the  congregation  not  a  little  by  storm.  He  fairly 
carried  us  away.  He  was  eloquent,  and  that  with  a  simplicity 
which  made  one  question  whether  he  did  not  speak  out  of  some 
pressing  personal  experience." — Katherine's  manner  was  touched 
by  a  pretty  edge  of  pique.  —  "  Really  I  believed  I  knew  all 
about  Julius  and  his  doings  by  this  time,  but  it  seems  I  don't ! 
I  think  I  must  find  out.  It  would  vex  me  that  anything  should 
happen  in  which  he  needed  sympathy,  and  that  I  did  not  offer 
it. — His  subject  was  the  answer  to  prayer  and  the  fulfilment  of 
prophecy — and  how  both  come,  come  surely  and  directly,  yet 
often  in  so  different  a  form  to  that  which,  in  our  narrowness  of 
vision  and  dulness  of  sense,  we  anticipate,  that  we  fail  to 
recognise  either  the  answer  or  the  fulfilment ;  and  so  miss  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  549 

blessing  they  must  needs  bring,  and  which  is  so  richly,  so 
preciously,  ours  if  we  had  but  the  wit  to  understand  and  lay 
hold  of  it." 

Whereupon  Richard  smiled  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "very  probably  Julius  did  speak  out  of 
personal  experience,  or  rather  vicarious  experience.  However, 
I  don't  think  he  need  worry  this  time,  at  least  I  hope  not.  The 
answer  to  prayer  and  fulfilment  of  prophecy,  when  they're  good 
enough  to  come  along,  don't  always  get  the  cold  shoulder." — 
Then  his  expression  changed,  hardened  a  little,  his  lips  growing 
thin  and  his  jaw  set.  —  "Look  here,  mother,"  he  added,  "I 
think  perhaps  I  have  been  rather  playing  the  fool  lately,  since 
we  came  home.  I  propose  to  take  to  the  ordinary  habits  of 
civilised,  christian  man  again.  If  it  doesn't  bother  you,  would 
you  kindly  let  the  servants  know  that  I'm  coming  down  to 
luncheon  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  my  dearest,  how  stupid  of  me,  I'm  so  grieved  ! " 
Katherine  cried.  She  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  cushioned 
bench,  dropping  service  books,  handkerchief,  and  violets,  in 
the  extremity  of  her  gentle  and  apologetic  distress. — "  It  never 
occurred  to  me  that  you  might  like  to  come  down.  The 
Newlands  people  came  over  to  church,  and  I  brought  Mary  and 
the  two  boys  back.  Godfrey  is  over  from  Eton  for  the  Sunday, 
and  little  Dick  has  had  a  cold  and  has  not  gone  back  to  school 
yet.  What  can  we  do  ?  It  would  be  so  lovely  to  have  you, 
and  yet  I  don't  quite  know  how  I  can  send  them  away 
again." 

"But  why  on  earth  should  they  be  sent  away?"  Richard 
said,  touched  and  amused  by  her  earnestness.  "  Mary's  always 
a  dear.  And  I've  been  thinking  lately  I  shouldn't  mind  seeing 
something  of  that  younger  boy.  He  is  my  godson,  isn't  he? 
And  Knott  tells  me  he  is  curiously  like  you  and  Uncle  Roger. 
You  see  it's  about  time  to  select  an  heir-apparent  for  Brockhurst. 
Luckily  I've  a  free  hand.     My  life's  the  last  in  the  entail." 

Then,  looking  at  him.  Lady  Calmady's  lips  trembled  a  little. 
Health  had  returned  and  with  it  his  former  good  looks,  but 
matured,  spiritualised,  as  it  seemed  to  her  just  now.  The  livid 
line  of  the  scar  had  died  out  too,  and  was  nearly  gone.  And  all 
this,  taken  in  connection  with  his  words  just  uttered,  affected  her 
to  so  great  and  poignant  a  love,  so  great  and  poignant  a  fear  of 
losing  him,  that  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  make  any  comment 
on  those  same  words  lest  the  flood-gates  of  emotion  should  be 
opened  and  she  should  lose  her  self-control. 

"  Very  well,  Dickie,"  she  said,  bowing  her  head. — Then  she 


550  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

added  quickly,  with  a  little  gasp  of  renewed  distress  and  apology  : 
— "  But — but,  oh  !  dear  me,  Honoria  is  here  too  ! " 

Whereat  Richard  laughed  outright.  He  could  not  help  it, 
she  was  so  vastly  engaging  in  her  distress. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I  am  equal  to  accepting  Honoria 
St.  Quentin  into  the  bargain.  In  short,  mother  dear,  I  take 
over  the  lot ;  and  if  anybody  else  turns  up  between  now  and  two 
o'clock  I'll  take  them  over  as  well. — Why,  why,  you  dear  sweet, 
don't  look  so  scared  !  There's  nothing  to  trouble  about.  I'm 
not  too  good  to  live,  never  fear.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  prepared 
to  do  quite  a  fine  amount  of  living — only  on  new  and  more 
modest  lines  perhaps.  But  we  won't  talk  about  that  just  yet, 
please.  We'll  wait  to  give  it  a  name  until  we're  a  little  more 
sure  how  it  promises  to  work  out." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEREIN   TWO    ENEMIES   ARE    SEEN   TO    CRY    QUITS 

GODFREY  ORMISTON  scudded  along  the  terrace,  past 
the  dining-room  windows,  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  and 
Miss  St.  Quentin  followed  him  at  a  hardly  less  unconventional 
pace.  Together  they  burst,  by  the  small,  arched  side-door,  into 
the  lobby.  There  ensued  discussion  lively  though  brief.  Then, 
Winter  setting  wide  the  dining-room  door  in  invitation,  sight  of 
Honoria  was  presented  to  the  company  assembled  within. — She, 
in  brave  attire  of  dark,  red  cloth,  black  braided  and  befrogged, 
heavy,  silk  cords  and  knotted,  dangling  tassels, — head-gear  to 
match,  dark  red  and  black,  a  tall,  stiff  aigrette  set  at  the  side  of  it, 
— in  all  producing  a  something  delightfully  independent,  soldierly, 
ruffling  even,  in  her  aspect,  as  she  pushed  the  black-haired, 
bright-faced,  slim-made  lad,  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
before  her  into  the  room. 

"  May  we  come  to  luncheon  as  we  are.  Cousin  Katherine  ?  " 
she  cried.  "We're  scandalously  late,  but  we're  also  most 
ferociously  hungry  and" — 

But  here,  although  Lady  Calmady  turned  on  her  a  welcom- 
ing and  far  from  unjoyful  countenance,  she  stopped  dead; 
while  Godfrey  incontinently  gave  vent  to  that  which  his  younger 
brother — sitting  beside  his  mother,  Mary  Ormiston,  at  table,  on 
Richard  Calmady's  right — described  mentally  as  "  the  most  awful 
squawk."     Which  squawk,  it  may  be  added, — whatever  its  effect 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  551 

•upon  other  members  of  the  company, — as  denoting  involuntary 
and  unceremonious  descent  from  the  high  places  of  thirteen-year- 
old,  public-school  omniscience  on  the  part  of  his  elder,  produced 
in  eight-year-old  Dick  Ormiston  such  over-flowings  of  unqualified 
rapture  that,  for  a  good  two  minutes,  he  had  to  forego  assimilation 
of  chocolate  soufflet,  and,  slipping  his  hands  beneath  the  table, 
squeeze  them  together  just  as  hard  as  ever  he  could  with  both 
knees,  to  avoid  disgracing  himself  by  emission  of  an  ecstatic 
giggle.  For  once  he  had  got  the  whip  hand  of  Godfrey  ! — Having 
himself,  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour  now,  been  conversant  with 
interesting  developments,  he  found  it  richly  diverting  to  behold 
his  big  brother  thus  incontinently  bowled  over  by  sudden  dis- 
closure of  them.  He  repressed  the  giggle,  with  the  help  of 
squeezing  knees  and  a  certain  squirming  all  down  his  neat,  little 
back ;  but  his  blue  eyes  remained  absolutely  glued  to  Godfrey's 
person,  as  the  latter,  recovering  his  presence  of  mind  and  good 
manners,  proceeded  solemnly  up  to  the  head  of  the  table  to  greet 
his  unlooked-for  host. 

Honoria,  meanwhile,  if  guiltless  of  an  audible  squawk,  had 
been — as  she  subsequently  reflected — potentially,  alarmingly 
capable  of  some  such  primitive  expression  of  feeling.  For  the 
shock  of  surprise  which  she  suffered  was  so  forcible,  that  it 
induced  in  her  an  absurd  unreasoning  instinct  of  flight.  Indeed, 
that  had  happened,  or  rather  was  in  process  of  happening,  which 
revolutionised  all  her  outlook.  For  that  the  unseen  presence,  con- 
sciousness of  which  had  come  to  be  so  constant  a  quantity  in  her 
action  and  her  thought,  should  thus  declare  itself  in  visible  form, 
be  materialised,  become  concrete,  and  that  instantly,  without 
prologue  or  preparation,  projecting  itself  wholesale,  so  to  speak, 
into  the  comfortable  commonplaces  of  a  Sunday  luncheon — 
after  her  slightly  uproarious  race  home  with  a  perfectly  normal 
schoolboy,  from  morning  church  too — affected  her  much  as  sudden 
intrusion  of  the  supernatural  might.  It  modified  all  existing  rela- 
tions, introducing  a  new  and,  as  yet,  incalculable  clement.  Nor 
had  she  quite  realised  what  power  the  unseen  Richard  Calmady, 
these  many  years,  had  exercised  over  her  imagination,  until 
Richard  Calmady  seen,  was  there  evident,  actually  before  her. 
Then  all  the  harsh  judgments  she  had  passed  upon  him,  all 
the  disapproval  of,  and  dislike  she  had  felt  towards,  him,  flashed 
through  her  mind.  And  tliat  matter  too  of  his  cancelled  engage- 
ment! — The  last  time  she  had  seen  him  was  in  the  house  in 
Lowndes  Sriuare,  on  the  night  of  Lady  Louisa  Barking's  great 
ball,  standing — she  could  see  all  that  now  —  it  was  as  if 
photographed  upon  her  brain — always  would  be — and  it  turned 


552  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her  a  little  sick. — Nevertheless  it  was  impossible  to  pause  any 
longer.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  fly,  so  she  must  stick  it 
out.  That  best  of  good  Samaritans,  Mary  Ormiston,  began 
talking  to  Julius  March  across  the  length  of  the  table. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,  of  course,"  she  was  saying.  "  But  I  never 
realised  she  was  a  sister  of  your  old  Oxford  friend.  I  wish  I  had. 
It  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  talk  about  you  and  about 
home  in  that  far  country  !  Her  husband  is  in  the  Rifle  Brigade, 
and  she  really  is  a  nice,  dear  woman.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her 
while  we  were  at  the  Cape." 

And  so,  under  cover  of  Mary's  kindly  conversation,  Miss  St. 
Quentin  settled  down  into  her  lazy,  swinging  stride.  Her  small 
head  carried  high,  her  pale,  sensitive  face  very  serious,  her 
straight  eyebrows  drawn  together  by  concentration  of  purpose, 
concentration  of  thought,  she  followed  the  boy  up  the  long 
room. 

As  'she  came  towards  him,  Richard  Calmady  looked  full  at 
her.  His  head  was  carried  somewhat  high  too.  His  face  was  very 
still.  His  eyes — with  those  curiously  small  pupils  to  them — were 
very  observant,  in  effect  hiding  rather  than  revealing  his  thought. 
His  manner,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  was  courteous,  even 
friendly ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding  her  high  and  fearless  spirit, 
Honoria — for  the  first  time  in  her  life  probably — felt  afraid. 
And  then  she  began  to  understand  how  it  came  about  that, 
whether  he  behaved  well  or  ill,  whether  he  was  good  or  bad, 
cruel  or  kind,  seen  or  unseen  even,  Richard,  of  necessity,  could 
not  but  occupy  a  good  deal  of  space  in  the  lives  of  all  persons 
brought  into  close  contact  with  him.  For  she  recognised  in  him 
a  rather  tremendous  creature,  self-contained,  not  easily  accessible, 
possessed  of  a  larger  portion  than  most  men  of  energy  and 
resolution,  possessed  too — and  this,  as  she  thought  of  it,  again 
turned  her  a  trifle  sick — of  an  unusual  capacity  of  suffering. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  being  so  dreadfully  late,"  she  said  as  she 
slipped  into  the  vacant  place  on  his  left,  Godfrey  Ormiston  was 
beyond  her,  next  to  Julius  March. — Honoria  was  aware  that 
her  voice  sounded  slightly  shaky,  in  part  from  her  recent 
scamper,  in  part  from  a  queer  emotion  which  seemed  to  clutch 
at  her  throat. — "  But  we  walked  home  over  the  fields  and  by 
the  Warren,  and  just  in  that  boggy  bit  where  you  cross  the 
Welsh-road,  Godfrey  found  the  slot  of  a  red-deer  in  the  snow, 
and  naturally  we  both  had  to  follow  it  up." 

"  Naturally,"  Richard  said. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  it  was  a  red-deer,  Honoria,"  the  boy 
broke  in. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  553 

"Oh  yes,  it  was,"  she  declared  as  she  helped  herself  to  a 
cutlet.     "  It  couldn't  have  been  anything  else." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Richard  asked.  He  was  interested  by  the  tone 
of  assurance  in  which  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  well,  the  tracks  were  too  big  for  a  fallow-deer  to  begin 
with.  And  then  there's  a  difference,  you  can't  mistake  it  if 
you've  ever  compared  the  two,  in  the  cleft  of  the  hoof." 

"  And  you  have  compared  the  two  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  Honoria  answered. — She  was  beginning  to 
recover  her  nonchalance  of  manner  and  indolent  slowness  of 
speech.  "  I  lose  no  opportunity  of  acquiring  odds  and  ends  of 
information.     One  never  knows  when  they  may  come  in  handy." 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke,  and  her  upper  lip  shortened 
and  her  eyes  narrowed  into  a  delightful  smile — a  smile,  moreover, 
which  had  the  faintest  trace  of  an  asking  of  pardon  in  it.  And 
it  struck  Richard  that  there  was  in  her  expression  and  bearing  a 
transparent  sincerity,  and  that  her  eyes — now  narrowed  as  she 
smiled — were  not  the  clear,  soft  brown  they  appeared  at  a  distance 
to  be,  but  an  indefinable  colour,  comparable  only  to  the  dim, 
yet  clear,  green  gloom  which  haunts  the  under-spaces  of  an  ilex 
grove  upon  a  summer  day.  He  turned  his  head  rather  sharply. 
He  did  not  want  to  think  about  matters  of  that  sort.  He  was 
grateful  to  this  young  lady  for  the  devoted  care  she  had  bestowed 
on  his  mother ;  but,  otherwise,  her  presence  was  only  a  part  of 
that  daily  discipline  which  must  be  cheerfully  undertaken  in 
obedience  to  the  exigencies  of  his  new  and  fair  idea. 

"  Probably  it  is  a  deer  that  has  broken  out  of  Windsor  Great 
Park  and  travelled,"  he  said.  "They  do  that  sometimes,  you 
know." 

Put  here  small  Dick  Ormiston,  whose  spirits,  lately  pirouetting 
on  giddy  heights  of  felicity,  had  suffered  swift  declension  boot- 
wards  at  mention  of  this  thrilling  adventure  in  which  he,  alas, 
had  neither  lot  nor  part,  projected  himself  violently  into  the 
conversational  arena. 

"Mother,"  he  piped,  his  words  tumbling  one  over  the  other 
in  his  eagerness — "Mother,  I  expect  it's  the  same  deer  that 
grandpapa  was  talking  about  when  Ix)rd  Shotover  came  over 
to  tea  last  Friday,  and  wanted  to  know  if  Monoria  wasn't  back 
at  Newlands  again.  And  then  he  and  grandpajia  yarned,  don't 
you  know.  Because,  Cousin  Richard — it  must  have  been  while 
you  were  away  last  year — the  buckhounds  met  at  Bagshot  and 
ran  through  Frimley  and  right  across  Spcndle  Mils" — 

"No,  they  didn't,  Cousin  Richard,"  (Godfrey  interrupted. 
"They  ran  through  the  bottom  of  Sandyfield  Lower  Wood." 


554  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"But  they  lost — any  way  they  lost,  Cousin  Richard,"  the* 
younger  boy  cried. — "  You  weren't  there,  Godfrey,  so  you  can't 
know  what  grandpapa  said.  He  said  they  lost  somewhere  just 
into  Brockhurst,  and  he  told  Lord  Shotover  how  they  beat  up 
the  country  for  nearly  a  week,  and  how  they  never  found  it, 
and  had  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job  and  go  home  again.  And — 
and — Lord  Shotover  said,  rotten  bad  sport,  stag-hunting,  unless 
you  get  it  on  Exmoor,  where  they're  not  carted  and  they  don't 
saw  their  antlers  off.  He  said  meets  of  the  buckhounds  ought 
to  be  called  Stockbrokers'  Parade,  that  was  about  all  they 
amounted  to.  And  so.  Cousin  Richard,  I  think — don't  you, 
mother? — that  this  must  be  that  same  deer." 

Whereat  the  elder  Dick's  expression,  which  had  grown 
somewhat  dark  at  the  mention  of  Lord  Shotover,  brightened 
sensibly  again.  And,  for  cause  unknown,  he  looked  at  Honoria, 
smiling  amusedly,  before  saying  to  the  very  voluble,  small  sports- 
man : — 

"  To  be  sure,  Dick.  Your  arguments  are  unanswerable, 
convincingly  sound.  No  reasonable  man  could  have  a  doubt 
about  it !     Of  course  it's  the  same  deer." 

Thereupon  the  luncheon  went  forward  gaily  enough,  though 
Miss  St.  Quentin  was  conscious  her  contributions  to  the  culti- 
vation of  that  same  gaiety  were  but  spasmodic.  She  dreaded 
the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  fearing  lest  then  she  might  be 
called  upon  to  behold  Richard  Calmady  once  again,  as  she  had 
beheld  him — now  nearly  six  years  ago — in  the  half-dismantled 
house  in  Lowndes  Square,  on  the  night  of  Lady  Louisa  Barking's 
ball.  And  from  that  she  shrank,  not  with  her  former  physical 
repulsion  towards  the  man  himself,  but  with  the  moral  repulsion 
of  one  compelled  against  his  will  to  gaze  upon  a  pitifully  cruel 
sight,  the  suffering  of  which  he  is  powerless  to  lessen  or  amend. 
The  short,  light-made  crutches,  lying  on  the  floor  by  the  young 
man's  chair,  shocked  her  as  the  callous  exhibition  of  some 
unhappy  prisoner's  shackling-irons  might.  It  constituted  an 
indignity  offered  to  the  Richard  sitting  here  beside  her,  so  much 
as  to  think  of,  let  alone  look  at,  that  same  Richard  when  on 
foot.  Therefore  it  was  with  an  oddly  mingled  relief  and  sense  of 
playing  traitor,  that  she  rose  with  the  rest  of  the  little  company 
and  left  him  by  himself.  She  was  thankful  to  escape,  though 
all  the  while  her  inherent  loyalty  tormented  her  with  accusation 
of  meanness,  as  of  one  who  deserts  a  comrade  in  distress. 

But  here  the  small  Dick,  to  whom  such  complex  refinements 
of  sensibility  were  as  yet  wholly  foreign,  created  a  diversion  by 
prancing  round  from  the  far   side   of  the   table   and   forcibly 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  555 

seizing  her  hand.  He  was  jealous  of  the  large  share  Godfrey 
had  to-day  secured  of  her  society.  He  meant  to  have  his 
innings.  So  he  rubbed  his  curly  head  against  her  much  braided 
elbow,  butting  her  lovingly  in  the  exuberance  of  his  affection 
as  some  nice,  little  ram-lamb  might.  But  just  as  they  reached 
the  door,  through  which  Lady  Calmady  and  the  rest  of  the 
party  had  already  passed,  the  boy  drew  up  short. 

"I  say,  hold  on  half  a  minute,  Honoria,  please,"  he  said. 

And  then,  turning  round,  his  cheeks  red  as  peonies,  he 
marched  back  to  where  Richard  sat  alone  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

"In  case — in  case,  don't  you  know,"  he  began,  stuttering 
in  the  excess  of  his  excitement — "in  case.  Cousin  Richard, 
mummy  didn't  quite  take  in  what  you  said  at  the  beginning  of 
luncheon — you  did  mean  for  really  that  I  was  to  come  and  stay 
here  in  the  summer  holidays,  and  that  you'd  take  me  out,  don't 
you  know,  and  show  me  your  horses  ?  " 

And  to  Honoria,  glancing  at  them,  there  was  a  singular,  and 
almost  tragic,  comment  on  life  in  the  likeness,  yet  unlikeness,  of 
those  two  faces — the  features  almost  identical,  the  same  blue 
eyes,  the  two  heads  alike  in  shape,  each  with  the  same  close- 
fitted,  bright-brown  cap  of  hair.  But  the  boy's  face  flushed, 
without  afterthought  or  qualification  of  its  eager  happiness ;  the 
man's  colourless,  full  of  reserve,  almost  alarmingly  self-contained 
and  still. 

Yet,  when  the  elder  Richard's  answer  came,  it  was  altogether 
gentle  and  kindly. 

"  Yes,  most  distinctly  for  really,  Dick,"  he  said.  "  Let 
there  be  no  mistake  about  it.  Let  it  be  clearly  understood  I 
want  to  have  you  here  just  as  long,  and  just  as  often,  as  your 
mother  and  father  will  spare  you.  I'll  show  you  the  horses, 
never  fear,  and  let  you  ride  them  too." 

"  A — a — a  real  big  one  ? " 

"Just  as  big  a  one  as  you  can  straddle."  Richard  paused. — 
"And  I'll  show  you  other  things,  if  all  goes  well,  which  I'm 
beginning  to  think — and  perhaps  you'll  think  so  too  some  day — 
are  more  important  even  than  horses." 

He  put  his  hand  under  the  boy's  chin,  tipped  uj)  the  ruddy, 
beaming,  little  face  and  kissed  it. 

"  It's  a  compact,"  he  said.  — "  Now  cut  along,  old  chap. 
Don't  you  see  you're  keeping  Miss  St.  Qucntin  waiting  ?" 

Whereujjfjn  the  small  Richard  started  soljerly  enough,  being 
slightly  impressed  by  something — he  knew  not  quite  what — only 
that  it  made  him  feel  awfully  fond,  somehow,  of  this  newly  dis- 


556  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

covered  cousin  and  namesake.  But,  about  half-way  down  the 
room,  that  promise  of  a  horse,  a  thorough-bred,  and  just  as  big 
as  he  could  straddle,  swept  all  before  it,  rendering  his  spirits 
uncontrollably  explosive.  So  he  made  a  wild  rush  and  flung 
himself  headlong  upon  the  waiting  Honoria. 

"Oh!  you  want  to  bear-fight,  do  you?  Two  can  play  at 
that  game,"  she  cried,  "you  young  rascal ! " 

Then,  without  apparent  effort  or  diminution  of  her  lazy 
grace,  the  elder  Richard  saw  her  pick  the  boy  up  by  his  middle, 
and,  notwithstanding  convulsive  wrigglings  on  his  part,  throw 
him  across  her  shoulder  and  bear  him  bodily  away  through  the 
lobby,  into  the  hall,  and  out  of  sight. 

Hence  it  fell  out  that  not  until  quite  late  that  evening  did 
the  moment  so  dreaded  by  Miss  St.  Quentin  actually  arrive. 
In  furtherance  of  delay  she  practised  a  diplomacy  not  alto- 
gether flattering  to  her  self-respect,  coming  down  rather  late 
for  dinner,  and  retiring  immediately  after  that  meal  to  the  Gun- 
Room,  under  plea  of  correspondence  which  must  be  posted  at 
Farley  in  time  for  to-morrow's  day  mail.  She  was  even  late 
for  prayers  in  the  chapel,  so  that,  taking  her  accustomed  place 
next  to  Lady  Calmady  in  the  last  but  one  of  the  stalls  upon 
the  epistle-side,  she  found  all  the  members  of  the  household, 
gentle  and  simple  alike,  already  upon  their  knees.  The  house- 
hold mustered  strong  that  night,  a  testimony,  it  may  be  supposed, 
to  feudal  as  much  as  to  religious  feeling.  In  the  seats  immedi- 
ately below  her  were  an  array  of  women-servants,  declining 
from  the  high  dignities  of  Mrs.  Reynolds  the  housekeeper,  the 
faithful  Clara,  and  her  own  lanky  and  loyal  North-Country  woman 
Faulstich,  to  a  very  youthful  scullery-maid,  sitting  just  without 
the  altar  rails  at  the  end  of  the  long  row.  Opposite  were  not 
only  Winter,  Bates  the  steward,  Powell,  Andrews,  and  the  other 
men-servants ;  but  Chaplin,  heading  a  detachment  from  the  house 
stables,  and — unexampled  occurrence  ! — Gnudi  the  Italian  chef, 
with  his  air  of  gentle  and  philosophic  melancholy  and  his  anarchic 
sentiments  in  theology  and  politics,  liable, — these  last, — when 
enlarged  on,  to  cause  much  fluttering  in  the  dove-cot  of  the 
housekeeper's  room.  "  To  hear  Signor  Gnudi  talk  sometimes 
made  your  blood  run  cold.  It  seemed  as  if  you  couldn't  be 
safe  anywhere  from  those  wicked  foreign  barricades  and  mass- 
acres," as  Clara  put  it.  And  yet,  in  point  of  fact,  no  milder 
man  ever  larded  a  woodcock  or  stuffed  it  with  truffles. 

Alone,  behind  all  these,  in  the  first  of  the  row  of  stalls 
with  their  carven  spires  and  dark-vaulted  canopies,  sat  Richard 
Calmady,  whom  all  his  people  had  thus  come  forth  silently  to 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  557 

welcome.  But,  through  prayer  and  psalm  and  lesson,  as 
Miss  St.  Quentin  noted,  he  remained  immoveable,  to  her  almost 
alarmingly  cold  and  self-concentrated.  Only  once  he  turned  his 
head,  leaning  a  little  forward  and  looking  towards  the  purple, 
and  silver,  and  fair,  white  flowers  of  the  altar,  and  the  clear 
shining  of  the  altar  lights. 

— "  Then  shall  the  righteous  answer  him,  saying.  Lord,  when 
saw  we  thee  an  hungered,  and  fed  thee?  or  thirsty  and  gave 
thee  drink  ?  When  saw  we  thee  a  stranger,  and  took  thee  in  ? 
or  naked  and  clothed  thee  ?  Or  when  saw  we  thee  sick,  or  in 
prison,  and  came  unto  thee  ?  And  the  King  shall  answer  and 
say  unto  them,  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  inasmuch  as  ye  have 
done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done 
it  unto  me." 

The  words  were  given  out  by  Julius  March,  not  only  with 
an  exquisite  distinctness  of  enunciation,  but  with  a  ring  of 
assurance,  of  sustaining  and  thankful  conviction.  Richard 
leaned  back  in  his  stall  again,  looking  across  at  his  mother. 
While  Honoria,  taken  with  a  sensitive  fear  of  inquiring  into 
matters  not  rightfully  hers  to  inquire  into,  hastily  turned  her  eyes 
upon  her  open  prayer-book.  They  must  have  many  things 
to  say  to  one  another,  that  mother  and  son,  as  she  divined, 
to-day, — far  be  it  from  her  to  attempt  to  surprise  their  con- 
fidence ! 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  cutting  her  final  petitions  somewhat 
short,  directly  the  last  of  the  men-servants  had  filed  out  of  the 
chapel ;  and,  crossing  the  Chapel-Room,  a  tall,  pale  figure  in  her 
trailing,  white,  evening  dress,  she  pulled  back  the  curtain  of  the 
oriel-window,  opened  one  of  the  curved,  many-paned  casements 
and  looked  out.  She  was  curiously  moved,  very  sensible  of  a 
deeper  drama  going  forward  around  her,  going  forward  in  her 
own  thought — subtly  modifying  and  transmuting  it — than  she 
could  at  present  either  explain  or  place.  The  night  was  cloudy 
and  very  mild.  A  soft,  sobbing,  westerly  wind,  with  the  smell 
of  coming  rain  in  it,  saluted  her  as  she  opened  the  casement. 
The  last  of  the  frost  must  be  gone,  by  now,  even  in  the  hollows ; 
the  snow  wholly  departed  also.  The  spring,  though  young  and 
feeble  yet,  puling  like  some  ailing  baby-child  in  the  voice  of  that 
softly-complaining,  westerly  wind,  was  here,  very  really  present  at 
list.  lionoria  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  stone  window-ledge. 
Her  heart  went  out  in  strong  emotion  of  tenderness  towards  that 
moist  wind  which  seemed  to  cry,  as  in  a  certain  homelessness, 
against  her  bare  arms  and  bare  neck. — "  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it 
unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren  " — 


558  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  just  then  Katherine  Calmady  called  to  her,  and  that  in  a 
sweet,  if  rather  anxious,  tone. 

"Honoria,  dear  child,  come  here,"  she  said.  "Richard  is 
putting  me  through  the  longer  catechism  regarding  those  heath 
fires  in  August  last  year,  and  the  state  of  the  woods." 

Then,  as  the  young  lady  approached  her,  Lady  Calmady  laid 
one  hand  on  her  arm,  looking  up  in  quick  and  loving  appeal 
at  the  serious  and  slightly  troubled  face. 

"My  answers  only  reveal  the  woful  greatness  of  my 
ignorance.  My  geography  has  run  mad.  I  am  planting  forests 
in  the  midst  of  cornfields,  so  Dickie  assures  me ;  and  making 
hay  generally— as  you,  my  dear,  would  say— of  the  map." 

Still  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  Honoria's  in  insistent  and  loving 
appeal. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  explain  to  him,  and  save  me  from  further 
exposition  of  my  own  ignorance." 

Thus  admonished  the  young  lady  sat  down  on  the  low  sofa 
beside  Richard  Calmady.  As  she  did  so  Katherine  rose  and 
moved  away.  Honoria  determined  to  see  only  the  young  man's 
broad  shoulders,  his  irreproachable  dress  clothes,  his  strangely 
still  and  very  handsome  face.  But,  since  there  was  no  concealing 
rug  to  cover  them,  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  long  avoid 
also  seeing  his  shortened  and  defective  limbs  and  oddly  shod  feet. 
Andat  that  she  winced  and  shrank  a  little,  for  all  her  high  spirit 
and  inviolate,  maidenly  strength. 

"Oh  yes!  those  fires!"  she  said  hurriedly.  "There  were 
several  —  you  remember.  Cousin  Katherine  ?  —  or  I  daresay 
you  don't,  for  you  were  ill  at  the  time.  But  the  worst  was  on 
Spendle  Flats.  You  know  that  long,  three-cornered  bit " — she 
looked  Richard  bravely  in  the  face  again— "which  lies  between 
the  Portsmouth  Road  and  our  cross-road  to  Farley  ?  It  runs  into 
a  point  just  at  the  top  of  Star  Hill." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Dickie  said. 

He  had  seen  her  wince. — Well,  that  wasn't  wonderful !  She 
could  not  very  well  do  otherwise,  if  she  had  eyes  in  her  head. 
He  did  not  blame  her.  And  then,  though  it  was  not  easy  to 
do  so  with  entire  serenity,  this  was  precisely  one  of  those  small 
unpleasant  incidents  which,  in  obedience  to  his  new  code,  he 
was  bound  to  accept  calmly,  good-temperedly,  just  as  part  of 
the  day's  work,  in  fact.  He  had  done  with  malingering.  He 
had  done  with  the  egoism  of  sulking  and  hiding — even  to  the 
extent  of  a  couvre-pieds.  All  right,  here  it  was  ! — Richard  settled 
his_  shoulders  squarely  against  the  straight,  stuffed  back  of  the 
Chippendale  sofa,  and  talked  on. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  559 

"It's  a  pity  that  bit  is  burnt,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  been 
over  that  ground  for  nearly  six  years,  of  course.  But  I  remember 
there  were  very  good  trees  there — a  plantation  at  the  top  end, 
just  before  you  come  to  the  big  gravel-pits,  and  the  rest  self- 
sown.     Are  they  all  gone?" 

"  Licked  as  clean  as  the  back  of  your  hand,"  Honoria  replied, 
warming  to  her  subject.  "  They  hardly  repaid  felling  for  fire- 
wood. It  made  me  wretched.  Some  idiot  threw  down  a  match, 
I  suppose.  There  had  been  nearly  a  month's  drought,  and  the 
whole  place  was  like  so  much  tinder.  There  was  an  easterly 
breeze  too.  You  can  imagine  the  blaze  !  We  hadn't  the  faintest 
chance.  Poor,  old  lies  lost  his  head  utterly,  and  sat  down 
with  his  feet  in  a  dry  ditch  and  wept.  There  must  be  over  two 
hundred  acres  of  it.  It's  a  dreadful  eyesore,  perfectly  barren 
and  useless,  but  for  a  little  sour  grass  even  a  gipsy's  donkey  has 
to  be  hard  up  before  he  cares  to  eat ! " — Miss  St.  Quentin  shifted 
her  position  with  a  certain  impatience.  .>_ "  I  can't  bear  to  see  the 
land  doing  no  work,"  she  said. 

"  Doing  no  work  ? "  Dickie  inquired.  He  began  to  be 
interested  in  the  conversation  from  other  than  a  purely  practical 
and  local  standpoint. 

"  Of  course,"  she  asserted.  "  The  land  has  no  more  right  to 
lie  idle  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us — unless  it's  a  bit  of  tilth 
sweetening  in  fallow  between  two  crops.  That  is  reasonable 
enough.  But  for  the  rest,"  she  said,  a  certain  brightness  and 
self-forgetting  gaining  on  her — "  let  it  contribute  its  share  all  the 
while,  like  an  honest  citizen  of  the  universe.  Let  it  work,  most 
decidedly  let  it  work." 

"And  what  about  such  trifles  as  the  few  hundred  square 
miles  of  desert  or  mountain  range?"  Richard  inquired,  half 
amused,  half,  and  that  rather  unwillingly,  charmed.  "They 
are  liable  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the — well,  socialist." 

"Oh,  I've  no  quarrel  with  them.  They  come  under  a 
different  head." — Honoria's  manner  had  ceased  to  be  in  any 
degree  embarrassed,  though  a  slight  perplexity  came  into  her  ex- 
pression. For  just  then  she  remembered,  somehow,  her  pacings 
of  the  station  platform  at  Culoz,  the  salutation  of  the  bleak, 
pure,  evening  wind  from  out  the  fastnesses  of  the  Alps,  and  all 
her  conversation  there  with  her  faitliful  admirer,  Ludovic  Quayle. 
And  it  occurred  to  her  what  singular  contrast  in  sentiment  that 
bleak,  evening  wind  offered  to  the  mild,  moist,  westerly  wind — 
com[)laint  of  the  homeless  baby,  Spring — which  had  just  now  cried 
against  her  bosom  !  And  again  Honoria  became  conscious 
of  being   in    contact,    both   in   herself    and   in    her   surround- 


S6o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ings,  with  more  coercing,  more  vital  drama  than  she  could 
either  interpret  or  place.  Again  something  of  fear  invaded  her, 
to  combat  which  she  hurried  into  speech. — "  No,  I  haven't  any 
quarrel  with  deserts  and  so  on,"  she  repeated.  "They're 
uncommonly  useful  things  for  mankind  to  knock  its  head 
against — invincible,  unnegotiable,  splendidly  competent  to  teach 
humanity  its  place.  You  see  we've  grown  not  a  little  conceited 
— so  at  least  it  seems  to  me — on  our  evolutionary  journey  up 
from  the  primordial  cell.  We're  too  much  inclined  to  forget  we've 
developed  soul  quite  comparatively  recently,  and  therefore  that 
there  is  probably  just  as  long  a  journey  ahead  of  us — before  we 
reach  the  ultimate  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  development — as 
there  is  behind  us  physically  from,  say  the  parent  ascidian,  to 
you  and  me.  And — and  somehow" —  Honoria's  voice  had 
become  full  and  sweet,  and  she  looked  straight  at  Dickie  with  a 
rare  candour  and  simplicity — "  somehow  those  big  open  spaces 
remind  one  of  all  that.  They  drive  one's  ineffectualness 
home  on  one.  They  remind  one  that  environment,  that 
mechanical  civilisation,  all  the  short  cuts  of  applied  science, 
after  all  count  for  little  and  inevitably  come  to  the  place  called 
stop.  And  that  braces  one.  It  makes  one  the  more  eager  after 
that  which  Ues  behind  the  material  aspects  of  things,  and  to 
which  these  merely  act  as  a  veil." 

Honoria  had  bowed  herself  together.  Her  elbows  were  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  in  her  two  hands,  her  charming  face  alight 
with  a  pure  enthusiasm.  And  Richard  watched  her  curiously. 
His  acquaintance  with  women  was  fairly  comprehensive,  but  this 
woman  represented  a  type  new  to  his  experience.  He  wanted 
to  tolerate  her  merely,  to  regard  her  as  an  element  in  his  scheme 
of  self-discipline.  And  it  began  to  occur  to  him  that,  from  some 
points  of  view,  she  knew  as  much  about  all  that,  as  much  about 
the  idea  inspiring  it,  as  he  did.  He  leaned  himself  back  in  the 
angle  of  the  sofa,  and  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  those  burnt  acres  on 
Spendle  Flats  are  hardly  extensive  enough  to  afford  an  object 
for  me  to  knock  my  head  against,  and  so  enforce  salutary  remem- 
brance of  the  limitations  of  human  science.  Possibly  that  has 
already  been  sufficiently  brought  home  to  me  in  other  ways." 

He  paused  a  minute. 

Honoria  straightened  herself  up.  Again  she  saw — whether 
she  would  or  no — those  defective  shortened  limbs  and  oddly 
shod  feet.  And  again,  somehow,  that  complaint  of  the  moist 
spring  wind  seemed  to  cry  against  her  bare  arms  and  neck, 
begetting  an  overwhelming  pitifulness  in  her. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  561 

"  So,  since  it's  not  altogether  necessary  we  should  reserve  it 
as  an  object-lesson  in  general  inefifectualness.  Miss  St.  Quentin, 
what  shall  we  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  plant,"  she  said. 

"  With  the  ubiquitous  Scotchman  ?  " 

'*  It  wouldn't  carry  anything  else,  except  along  the  boundaries. 
There  you  might  put  in  a  row  of  horn-beam  and  oak.  They 
always  look  rather  nice  against  a  background  of  firs. — Only  the 
stumps  of  the  burnt  trees  ought  to  be  stubbed." 

"  Let  them  be  stubbed,"  Richard  said. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  find  the  labour?  The  estate  is 
very  much  under-manned." 

"  Import  it,"  Richard  said. 

"  No,  no,"  Honoria  answered,  again  warming  to  her  subject. 
"  I  don't  believe  in  imported  labour.  If  you  have  men  by  the 
week,  they  must  lodge.  And  the  lodger  is  as  the  ten  plagues  of 
Egypt  in  a  village.  If  a  man  comes  by  the  day,  he  is  tired  and 
slack.  His  heart  is  not  in  his  work.  He  does  as  little  as  he 
can.  Moreover,  in  either  case,  the  wife  and  children  suffer. 
He's  certain  to  take  them  home  short  money.  He's  pretty  safe, 
being  tired  in  the  one  case,  or  in  the  other,  on  the  loose,  to 
drink." 

Dickie's  face  gave.     He  laughed  a  little. 

"  We  seem  to  have  come  to  a  fine  impasse  !  "  he  remarked. 
^'Though  humiliatingly  small,  that  tract  of  burnt  land  must 
clearly  be  kept  to  knock  one's  head  against  after  all." 

Honoria  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Richard,  I  wish  you'd  build,"  she  said,  in  her  earnestness 
unconscious  of  the  unceremonious  character  of  her  address. 
"  lies  ought  to  have  done  that  before  now.  But  he  is  old  and 
timid,  and  his  one  idea  has  been  to  save.  You  know  this 
Krockhurst  property  alone  would  carry  eight  or  ten  more  families. 
'I'here's  plenty  of  work.  It  needn't  be  made.  It  is  there  ready 
to  hand.  Give  them  good  gardens,  allotments  if  you  can,  and 
leave  to  keep  a  pig.  That's  infinitely  better  than  extravagant 
wages.  Root  them  down  in  the  soil.  Let  them  love  the  place 
— tie  them  up  to  it  " — 

"  Your  socialism  is  rather  quaintly  crossed  with  feudalism, 
isn't  it?"  Dickie  remarked. 

He  drew  himself  forward,  slipf)ed  down  off  the  sofa,  stood 
upright.  And  then,  indeed,  the  cruel  disparity  between  his  stature 
and  her  own — for  tall  though  she  was,  he,  by  right  of  make 
and  length  of  arm,  should  evidently  have  been  by  some  two 
■or  three    inches  the   taller — and   all   the  grotesqueness  of  his 

36 


562  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

deformity,  were  fully  disclosed  to  Honoria.  For  the  second 
time  that  day,  her  tact,  her  presence  of  mind,  her  ready  speech, 
deserted  her.     She  backed  a  little  away  from  him. 

And  Richard  perceived  that.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  absolutely 
philosophic.  Something  of  his  old  anger  revived  towards  Miss 
St.  Quentin.  He  shuffled  forward  a  step  or  two,  and,  supporting 
himself  with  one  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  reached  down  to 
pick  up  his  crutches.  But  his  grasp  was  not  very  sure  just  then. 
He  secured  one.  To  his  intense  annoyance  the  other  escaped 
him,  falling  back  on  the  floor  with  a  rattle.  Then,  instantly, 
before  he  could  make  effort  to  recover  it,  Honoria's  white  figure 
swept  down  on  one  knee  in  front  of  him.  She  laid  hold  of  the 
crutch,  gave  it  him  silently,  and  rose  to  her  full  height  again, 
pale,  gallant,  stately,  but  with  a  quivering  of  her  lips  and  nostrils, 
and  an  amazement  of  regret  and  pity  in  her  eyes,  which  very 
certainly  had  never  found  place  there  heretofore. 

"Thanks,"  Richard  said. — He  waited  just  a  minute.  He 
too  was  amazed  somehow.  He  needed  to  revise  the  position. — 
"About  those  eight  or  ten  happy  families  whom  you  wish  to 
root  so  firmly  in  the  soil,  and  the  housing  of  them — are  you 
busy  to-morrow  morning  ?  " 

"Oh  no — no" — Honoria  declared,  with  rather  unnecessary 
emphasis. 

Generosity  should  surely  be  met  by  generosity.  Dickie 
leaned  his  back  against  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and  looked  up  at 
the  speaker.  Her  transparent  sincerity,  her  superb  chastity — he 
could  call  it  by  no  other  word — of  manner  and  movement,  even 
of  outline — the  slight  angularity  of  strong  muscle  as  opposed  to 
soft  roundness  of  cushioned  flesh — these  arrested  and  impressed 
him. 

"  I  had  Chifney  up  from  the  stables  this  afternoon  and  made 
my  peace  with  him,"  he  said.  "  He  was  very  full  of  your  praises, 
Honoria — for  the  cousinship  may  as  well  be  acknowledged  between 
us,  don't  you  think  ?  You  have  supplemented  my  lapses  in  respect 
of  him,  as  of  a  good  deal  else." — Richard  looked  away  to  the  door 
of  Lady  Calmady's  bedroom.  It  stood  open,  and  Katherine 
came  from  within  with  some  books,  and  a  silver  candlestick,  in 
her  hands. 

"  My  dears,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  it  grows  very  late?" 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  "we're  making  out  some  plans  for 
to-morrow." — He  looked  at  Honoria  again. — "  Chifney  engaged 
that  he  and  Chaplin  would  find  a  horse,  between  them,  which 
could  be  trusted  to — well — to  put  up  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
promised  to  go  down  and  have  breakfast  with  dear  Mrs.  Chifney 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  563 

at  the  stables,  but  I  can  be  back  here  by  eleven.  Would 
you  be  inclined  to  come  out  with  me  then  ?  We  could  ride 
over  that  burnt  land  and  have  a  poke  round  for  sites  for  your 
cottages." 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,  I  can  come,"  Honoria  answered.  Her 
delightful  smile  beamed  forth,  and  it  had  a  new  and  very 
delicate  charm  in  it.  For  it  so  happened  that  the  woman  in  her 
whom — to  use  her  own  phrase — she  had  condemned  to  solitary 
confinement  in  the  back  attic,  beat  very  violently  against  her 
prison  door  just  then  in  attempt  to  escape. 

"  Dear  Cousin  Katherine,  good-night.  Good-night,  Richard," 
she  said  hurriedly.— She  went  out  of  the  room,  lazily,  slowly, 
down  the  black,  polished  staircase,  across  the  great,  silent  hall,  and 
along  the  farther  lobby.  But  she  let  the  Gun-Room  door  bang  to 
behind  her  and  flung  herself  down  in  the  arm-chair — in  which, 
by  the  way,  the  old  bull-dog  had  died  a  year  ago,  broken-hearted 
by  over  long  waiting  for  the  home-coming  of  his  absent  master. 
And  then  Honoria,  though  the  least  tearful  of  women,  wept — 
not  in  petulant  anger,  or  with  the  easy,  luxuriously  sentimental 
overflow  common  to  feminine  humanity;  but  reluctantly,  with 
hard,  irregular  sobs  which  hurt,  yet  refused  to  be  stifled,  since 
the  extreme  limit  of  emotional  and  mental  endurance  had  been 
reached. 

" Oh,  it's  fine  ! "  she  said,  half  aloud.  "I  can  see  that  it's 
fine — but,  dear  God,  is  there  no  way  out  of  it  ?  It's  so  horribly, 
so  unspeakably  sad." 

And  Richard  remained  on  into  the  small  hours,  sitting  before 
the  dying  fire  of  the  big  hearth-place,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the 
gallery.  Mentally  he  audited  his  accounts,  the  profit  and  loss 
of  this  day's  doing,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  balance  showed  upon 
the  profit  side.  Verily  it  was  only  a  day  of  small  things,  of  very 
humble  ambitions,  of  far  from  world-shaking  successes  !  Still 
four  persons,  he  judged,  he  had  made  a  degree  or  so  happier. — His 
mother  rejoiced,  though  with  trembling  as  yet,  at  his  return  to 
the  ordinary  habits  of  the  ordinary  man.  Sweet,  dear  thing,  small 
wonder  that  she  trembled  !  He  had  led  her  such  a  dance  ir> 
the  past,  that  any  new  departure  must  give  cause  for  anxious 
questionings.  Dickie  sunk  his  head  in  his  hands. — God  forgive 
him,  what  a  dance  he  had  led  her! — And  Julius  March  was 
happier — he,  Richard,  was  pretty  certain  of  that — since  Julius 
could  not  but  understand  that,  in  the  present  case  at  all 
events,  neither  fulfilment  of  prophecy  nor  answer  to  prayer 
had  been  disregarded.  —  And  the  hard  bitten,  irascible,  old 
trainer,  Tom  Chifney,  was  happier — probably  really  the  happiest 


564  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  the  lot — since  he  demanded  nothing  more  recondite  and  far- 
reiiching  than  restoration  to  favour,  and  due  recognition  of  the 
importance  of  his  caUing  and  of  the  merits  of  his  horses. — And 
nice,  funny,  voluble,  little  Dick  Ormiston  was  happier  too. 
Richard's  heart  went  out  strangely  to  the  dear  little  lad  !  He 
wondered  if  it  would  be  too  much  to  ask  Mary  and  Roger  to 
give  him  the  boy  altogether  ?  Then  he  put  the  thought  from 
him,  judging  it  savoured  of  the  selfishness,  the  exclusiveness  and 
egoism,  with  which  he  had  sworn  to  part  company  forever. 

He  stretched  his  hand  out  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  craving 

for  some  creature,  warm,  sentient,  dumbly  sympathetic,  to  lay 

hold  of. — He  remembered  there  used  to  be  a  man  down  near 

Alton,  a   hard-riding  farmer,  who   bred  bull-dogs — white   ones 

with   black    points,   like   Camp   and    Camp's   forefathers.     He 

would  tell  Chifney  to  go  down  there  and  bespeak  the  two  best  of 

the  next  Utter  of  puppies. — Yes — he  wanted  a  dog  again.     It  was 

foolish  perhaps,  but  after  all  one  did  want  something,  and,  since 

other  things  were  denied,  a  dog  must  do — and  he  wanted  one 

badly. — Yet  the  day  had  been  a  success  on  the  whole.     He  had 

been    true   to    his   code.      Only — and    Richard    shrugged   his 

shoulders  rather  wearily — it  had  got  to  be  begun  all  over  again 

to-morrow,  and  next  day,  and  next — an  endless  perspective  of 

to-morrows.     And  the  poor  flesh,  with  its  many  demands,  its 

delicious  and  iniquitous  passions,  its  enchantments,  its  revelations, 

its  adorable  languors,  its  drunken  heats,  must  it  have  nothing, 

nothing  at  all  ? — Must  that  whole  side  of  things  be  ruled_  out 

forever?     He  had  no  more  desire  for  mistresses,  God  forbid — 

Helen,  somehow,  had  cleansed  him  of  all  possibility  of  that.     And 

he  would  never  ask  any  woman  to  marry  him.     The  sacrifice 

on  her  part  would  be  too  great. — He  thought  of  little  Lady 

Constance. — Simply,   it    was    not    right. — So,    practically,    the 

emotional  joys  of  life  were  reduced  to  this — they  must  consist 

solely  in  giving — giving — giving,  of  time,  sympathy,  thought  and 

money.     A  far  from  ignoble  programme  no  doubt,  but  a  rather 

austere  one  for  a  man  of  liberal  tastes,  of  varied  experience,  and 

of  barely  thirty. — And  he  was  as  strong  as  a  bull  now.      He 

knew  that.     He  might  live  to  be  ninety. — Yes,  he  thought  he 

would   ask  for  little  Dick  Ormiston.     The   boy  would   be   an 

amusement  and  interest  him.     And  then  suddenly  the  vision  of 

Honoria  St.  Quentin,  in  her  red  and  black-braided  gown,  with  that 

air  of  something  ruffling  and  soldierly  about  it,  whipping  the  small 

Dick  up  in  her  strong  arms,  throwing  him  across  her  shoulder  and 

bearing  him  off  bodily  ;  and  of  Honona  again  later,  her  sensitive 

face  all  alight,  as  she  discoursed  of  the  ultimate  aim  and  purpose  of 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  565 

life  and  of  living,  came  before  him.  Above  her  white  dress,  he 
could  see  her  white  and  finely  angular  shoulders  as  she  swept 
down  to  pick  up  that  wretched  crutch. —  Yes,  she  was  a  being 
of  singular  contrasts,  of  remarkable  capacity,  both  mental  and 
practical !  And  she  might  have  a  heart — she  might.  Once  or 
twice  it  had  looked  rather  hke  it. — But,  after  all,  what  did  that 
matter  ?  The  feminine  side  of  things  was  excluded.  Besides 
he  supposed  she  was  half  engaged  to  Ludovic  Quayle. 

Dickie  yawned.  He  was  sleepy.  His  meditations  became 
unprofitable.     He  had  best  go  to  bed. 

"  And  the  devil  fly  away  with  all  women,  saving  and  except- 
ing my  best-beloved  mother,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COXCKRKIXG    THK    BKOTHERHOOD    FOUNDED    BY    RICHARD 
CALMADY,    AXD    OTHKR    MATT>:R.S    OK    SOME    INTEREST 

IT  was  still  very  sultry.  All  the  windows  of  the  red  drawing- 
room  stood  wide  open.  Outside  the  thunder  rain  fell, 
straight  as  ram-rods,  in  big  globular  drops,  which  spattered  upon 
the  grey  quarries  and  splashed  on  the  pink  and  lilac,  lemon-yellow, 
scarlet  and  orange  of  the  pot  plants, — hydrangeas,  pelargoniums, 
and  early-flowering  chrysanthemums, — set  three-deep  along  the 
base  of  the  house  wall,  the  whole  length  of  the  terrace  front. 
The  atmosphere  was  thick.  Masses  of  purple  cloud,  lurid  light 
crowning  their  summits,  boiled  up  out  of  the  south-east.  But 
the  worst  of  the  storm  was  already  over,  and  the  parched  land, 
grateful  for  the  downpour  of  rain,  exhaled  a  whiteness  of  smoke 
— as  in  thanksgiving  from  off  some  altar  of  incense.  On  the 
grass  slopes  of  the  near  park  a  flight  of  rooks  had  alighted. 
They  stalked  and  strode  over  the  withered  turf  with  a  self- 
important,  quaintly  clerical  air,  seeking  provender,  but,  so  far, 
finding  none,  since  the  moisture  had  not  yet  sufficiently  pene- 
trated the  hardened  soil  for  earth-worms  and  kindred  creeping- 
things  to  move  surfacewards. 

Within,  the  red  drawing  -  room  had  suflercd  conspicuous 
change.  For,  on  Richard  moving  downstairs  to  his  old  (|uarters 
in  the  south-western  wing  of  the  house,  Lady  Calmady  had 
judged  it  an  act  of  love,  rather  than  of  desecration,  to  restore 
this  long-disused  apartment  to  its  former  employment.  Adjoin- 
ing the    dining-room  —  connecting   this   last    with    the    bilHard- 


566  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

room,  summer-parlour,  and  garden-hall — this  room  was  con- 
venient to  assemble  in  before,  and  sit  in  for  a  while  after,  meals. 
Richard  would  thereby  be  saved  superfluous  journeys  upstairs. 
And  this  act  of  restitution,  which  was  also  in  a  sense  an  act  of 
penitence,  once  decided  upon,  Katherine  carried  it  forward  with 
a  certain  gentle  ardour,  renewing  crimson  carpets  and  hangings  and 
disposing  the  furniture  according  to  its  long-ago  positions.  The 
memory  of  what  had  once  been  should  remain  forever  here 
enshrined,  but  with  the  glad  colours  of  life,  not  the  faded  ones 
of  unforgiven  death  upon  it.  It  satisfied  her  conscience  to  do 
this.  For  it  appeared  to  her  that  so  very  much  of  good  had 
been  granted  her  of  late,  so  large  a  measure  of  peace  and  hope 
vouchsafed  to  her,  that  it  was  but  fitting  she  should  bear  testimony 
to  her  awareness  of  all  that  by  obliteration  of  the  last  outward 
sign  of  the  rebellion  of  her  sorrowful  youth.  The  Richard  of 
to-day,  homestaying,  busy  with  much  kindness,  thoughtful  of  her 
comfort,  honouring  her  with  delicate  courtesies — which  to  whoso 
receives  them  makes  her  womanhood  a  privilege  rather  than  a 
burden — yet  teasing  her  not  a  little,  too,  in  the  security  of  a  fair 
and  equal  affection,  bore  such  moving  resemblance  to  that  other 
Richard,  first  master  of  her  heart,  that  Katherine  could  afford  to 
cancel  the  cruelty  of  certain  memories,  retaining  only  the  lovelier 
portion  of  them,  and  could  find  a  peculiar  sweetness  in  frequenta- 
tion  of  this  room,  formerly  devoted  wholly  to  sense  of  injury  and 
blackness  of  hate. 

And  on  the  day  in  question,  Katherine's  presence  exhaled  a 
specially  tender  brightness,  even  as  the  thirsty  earth,  refreshed  by 
the  thunder-rain,  sent  up  a  rare  whiteness  as  of  incense  smoke. 
For  she  had  been  somewhat  anxious  about  Dickie  lately.  To 
her  sensitive  observation  of  him,  his  virtue,  his  evenness  of 
temper,  his  reasonableness,  had  come  to  have  in  them  a  pathetic 
element.  He  was  lovely  and  pleasant  in  his  ways.  But  some- 
times, when  tired  or  off  his  guard,  she  had  surprised  an  expression 
on  his  face,  a  constrained  patience  of  speech,  even  of  attitude, 
which  made  her  fear  he  had  given  her  but  that  half  of  his  con- 
fidence calculated  to  cheer,  while  he  kept  the  half  calculated  to 
sadden  rather  rigorously  to  himself.  And,  in  good  truth,  Richard 
did  suffer  not  a  little  at  this  period.  The  first  push  of  enthusiastic 
■conviction  had  passed,  while  his  new  manner  of  conduct  and  of 
thought  had  not  yet  acfjuired  the  stability  of  habit.  The  tide 
was  low.  Shallows  and  sand-bars  disclosed  themselves.  He 
endured  the  temptations  arising  from  the  state  known  to  saintly 
writers  as  "spiritual  dryness,"  and  found  those  temptations  of  an 
inglorious  and  wholly  unheroic  sort.     And,  though  he  held  his 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  567 

peace,  Katherine  feared  for  him — feared  that  the  way  he  elected 
to  walk  in  was  over  strait,  and  that,  though  resolution  would 
hold,  health  might  be  overstrained. 

"  My  darling,  you  never  grumble  now,"  she  had  said  to  him 
a  few  days  back. 

To  which  he  answered  : — 

"  Poor,  dear  mother,  have  I  cheated  you  of  one  of  your  few, 
small  pleasures?  Was  it  so  very  delightful  to  listen  to  that  same 
grumbling?" 

"  I  begin  to  believe  it  was,"  Katherine  declared.  "  It  con- 
ferred a  unique  distinction  upon  me,  you  see,  because  I  had  a 
comfortable  conviction  you  grumbled  to  nobody  else.  One  is 
jealous  of  distinction.     Yes — I  think  I  miss  it,  Dickie." 

Whereupon  he  laughed  and  kissed  her,  and  swore  he'd 
grumble  fast  enough  if  there  was  anything — which  positively 
there  wasn't — to  grumble  about.  All  of  which,  though  it 
charmed  Katherine,  appeased  her  anxiety  but  moderately.  The 
young  man  worked  too  hard.  His  opportunities  of  amusement 
were  too  scant.  Katherine  cast  about  in  thought,  and  in  prayer, 
for  some  lightening  of  his  daily  life,  even  if  such  lightening  should 
lessen  the  completeness  of  his  dependence  upon  herself.  And 
it  was  just  at  this  juncture  that  Miss  St.  Quentin  wrote  proposing 
to  come  to  Brockhurst  for  a  week.  She  had  not  been  there 
since  the  Whitsuntide  recess.  She  wrote  from  Ormiston,  where 
she  was  staying  on  her  way  south,  after  paying  a  round  of 
country-house  visits  in  Scotland.  It  was  now  September.  She 
would  probably  go  to  Cairo  for  the  winter  with  young  Lady 
Tobermory — grand-niece  by  marriage  of  her  late  god-mother  and 
benefactress — whose  lungs  were  pronounced  to  be  badly  touched. 
Might  she,  therefore,  come  to  Brockhurst  to  say  good-bye  ? 

And  to  this  proposed  visit  Richard  offered  no  opposition, 
though  he  received  the  announcement  of  it  without  any  marked 
demonstration  of  approval. — Oh,  by  all  means  let  her  come  ! 
Of  course  it  must  be  a  pleasure  to  his  mother  to  have  her.  And 
he'd  got  on  very  well  with  her  in  the  spring — unciuestionably  he 
had. —  Richard's  expression  was  slightly  ironical. — But  he  did 
really  like  her? — Oh  dear,  yes,  he  liked  her  exceedingly.  She 
was  quite  curiously  clever,  and  she  was  sincere,  and  she  was  rather 
beautiful  too,  in  her  own  style — he  had  always  thought  that.  By 
all  means  have  her. — After  which  conversation  Richard  went  for  a 
long  ride,  inspected  cottages  in  building  at  Sandyfield,  and  visited  a 
house,  undergoing  extensive  internal  alterations,  which  stands  back 
from  Gierke's  Oreen,  about  a  hundred  yards  short  of  Aj)pleyard, 
the  saddler's  shop  at  Tarley  Row.     He  came  in  late.     Unusual 


568  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

silence  held  him  during  dinner.  And  Lady  Calmady  took 
herself  to  task,  reproaching  herself  with  selfishness.  Honoria 
was  very  dear  to  her,  and  so,  only  too  probably,  she  had  over- 
rated the  friendliness  of  Dickie's  attitude  towards  the  young  lady. 
But  they  had  seemed  to  get  on  so  extremely  well  in  the  spring, 
and  very  fairly  well  at  Whitsuntide  !  Yet,  perhaps,  in  that,  as  in 
so  much  else,  Richard  put  a  constraint  upon  himself,  obeying 
conscience  rather  than  inclination.  Katherine  was  perturbed. 
Nor  had  her  perturbations  suffered  diminution  yesterday,  upon 
]\Iiss  St.  Quentin's  arrival.  Richard  remained  unexpansive.  To- 
day, however,  matters  had  improved.  Something — possibly  the 
thunderstorm — seemed  to  have  thawed  his  coldness,  broken  up 
his  reticence  of  manner.  Therefore  Katherine  gave  thanks  and 
moved  with  a  lighter  heart. 

As  for  Miss  St.  Quentin  herself,  an  innate  gladsomeness  per- 
vaded her  aspect  not  easy  to  resist.  Lady  Calmady  had  been  sen- 
sible of  it  when  the  young  lady  first  greeted  her  that  morning.  It 
remained  by  her  now,  as  she  stood  after  luncheon  at  one  of  the 
open  windows,  watching  the  up-rolling  thunder-cloud,  the  spatter- 
ing raindrops,  the  quaintly  solemn  behaviour  of  the  stalking, 
striding  rooks.  Honoria  was  easily  entertained  to-day.  She 
felt  well-disposed  towards  every  living  creature.  And  the  rooks 
diverted  her  extremely.  Profanely  they  reminded  her  of  certain 
archiepiscopal  garden-parties ;  with  this  improvement  on  the 
human  variant,  that  here  wives  and  daughters  also  were  con- 
demned to  decent  sables  instead  of  being  at  liberty  to  array 
themselves  according  to  self- invented  canons  of  remarkably 
defective  taste.  But,  though  diverted,  it  must  be  owned  she 
gave  her  attention  the  more  closely  to  all  that  outward  drama  of 
storm  and  rain  and  to  the  antics  of  the  rooks,  because  she  was 
very  conscious  of  the  fact  that  Richard  Calmady  had  followed 
her  and  his  mother  into  the  red  drawing-room,  and  it  hurt  her — 
though  she  had  now,  of  necessity,  witnessed  it  many  times— it 
hurt,  it  still  very  shrewdly  distressed  her,  to  see  him  walk.  As  she 
heard  the  soft  thud  and  shuffle  of  his  onward  progress,  followed 
by  the  Httle  clatter  of  the  crutches  as  he  laid  them  upon  the 
floor  beside  his  chair,  the  brightness  died  out  of  Honoria's  face. 
She  registered  sharp  annoyance  against  herself,  for  she  had  not 
anticipated  that  this  would  continue  to  affect  her  so  much.  She 
supposed  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  it  during  her  last  two 
visits  to  Brockhurst,  and  that,  this  time,  it  would  occasion  her  no 
shock.  But  the  sadness  of  the  young  man's  deformity  remained 
present  as  ever.  The  indignity  of  it  offended  her.  The  desire  by 
some,  by  any,  means  to  mitigate  the  woful  circumscription  of 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  569 

liberty  and  opportunity  which  it  inflicted,  wrought  upon  her 
almost  painfully.  And  so  she  looked  very  hard  at  the  hungry, 
anticking  rooks,  both  to  secure  time  for  recovery  of  her 
equanimity,  and  also  to  spare  Richard  smallest  suspicion  that 
she  avoided  beholding  his  advance  and  installation. 

"We  needn't  start  until  four,  mother,"  she  heard  him  saj'. 
"But  I'm  afraid  it  is  clearing." 

Honoria  turned  from  the  window. 

"Yes,  it  is  clearing,"  she  remarked,  " incontestably  clearing! 
You  won't  escape  the  Grimshott  function  after  all." 

"  It's  a  nuisance  having  to  go,"  Richard  replied.  "  But  you 
see  this  is  an  old  engagement.  People  are  wonderfully  civil  and 
kind.  I  wish  they  were  less  so.  They  waste  one's  time.  But  it 
doesn't  do  to  be  ungracious,  and  we  needn't  stay  more  than  half 
an  hour,  need  we,  mother  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  Honoria. 

"Don't  you  think,  on  the  whole,  you'd  better  come  too?'^ 
he  said. 

But  the  young  lady  shook  her  head  smilingly.  She  stood 
close  beside  Lady  Calmady. 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  she  answered.  "I  am  quite  absolutely 
certain  I  hadn't  better  come  too." 

Richard  continued  to  look  up  at  her. 

"  Half  the  county  will  be  there.  Everything  will  be  richly, 
comprehensively  dull.  Think  of  it.  Do  come,"  he  repeated,  "  it 
would  be  so  good  for  your  soul." 

"  Oh,  my  soul's  in  the  humour  to  be  nobly  careless  of 
personal  advantage,"  Honoria  replied.  "  It's  in  a  state  of 
almost  perilously  full-blown  optimism  regarding  the  security 
of  its  own  salvation  to-day,  somehow." — Her  glance  rested  very 
sweetly  upon  Lady  Calmady. — "And  then  all  the  rest  of  me — 
and  not  impossibly  my  soul  has  a  word  to  say  in  that  connection 
too — cries  out  to  go  and  tramp  over  the  steaming  turf  and 
breathe  the  scent  of  the  fir  woods  again." 

Honoria  sat  down  lazily  on  the  arm  of  a  neighbouring  easy- 
chair,  against  the  crimson  cover  of  which  her  stri])ed  bluc-and- 
white,  shirting  dress  showed  excellently  distinct  and  clear. 
Richard's  prolonged  and  quiet  scrutiny  oppressed  her  slightly, 
necessitating  change  of  attitude  and  place. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  "I  want  to  go  down  to  the 
paddocks  and  have  a  look  at  the  yearlings.  How  are  they 
coming  on  ?     Have  you  anything  good?" 

"Two  or  three  promising  fillies.  They're  in  the  paddock 
nearest  the  Long  Water,     You'll  fmd  them  as  quiet  as  sheep. 


570  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  I'll  ask  you  not  to  go  in  among  the  brood-mares  and  foals 
unless  Chifney  is  with  you.  They  may  be  a  bit  savage  and  shy, 
and  it  is  not  altogether  safe  for  a  lady." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  taking  Lady  Calmady's  hand  for  a 
moment. 

"  Dear  mother,  you  look  tired.  You'll  have  to  put  up  vsith 
Grimshott.  The  weather's  not  going  to  let  us  off.  Go  and  rest 
till  we  start." 

And  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Katherine,  departing,  closed 
the  door  behind  her,  he  addressed  Miss  St.  Quentin  again. 

"  How  do  you  think  my  mother  is  ?  " 

"  Beautifully  well." 

"Not  worried?" 

"  No,"  Honoria  said. 

"  You  are  really  quite  contented  about  her,  then  ?  " 

The  question  both  surprised  and  touched  his  hearer,  as  a 
friendly  and  gracious  admission  that  she  possessed  certain 
rights. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,"  she  said.  "  I  am  more  than  contented 
about  her.  No  one  can  fail  to  be  so  who,  loving  her,  sees  her 
now.  There  \vas  just  one  thing  she  wanted.  Now  she  has  it, 
and  so  all  is  well." 

"  What  one  thing  ?  "  Dickie  asked,  with  a  hint  of  irony  in  his 
manner  and  his  voice. 

"  Why,  you — you,  Richard,"  Honoria  said. 

She  drew  herself  up  proudly,  a  little  alarmed  by,  a  little 
defiant  of,  the  directness  of  her  own  speech,  perceiving,  so  soon 
as  she  had  uttered  it,  that  it  might  be  construed  as  indirect 
reproach.  And  to  administer  reproach  had  been  very  far  from 
her  purpose.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  domes  of  the  great 
oaks,  crowning  an  outstanding  knoll  at  the  far  end  of  the  lime 
avenue.  The  foliage  of  them,  deep  green  shading  into  russet, 
was  arrestingly  solid  and  metallic,  offering  a  rather  magnificent 
scheme  of  stormy  colour  taken  in  connection  with  the  hot  purple 
of  the  uprolling  cloud.  Framed  by  the  stone  work  of  the  open 
window,  the  whole  presented  a  fine  picture  in  the  manner  of 
Salvator  Rosa.  A  few  bright  raindrops  splashed  and  splattered, 
and  the  thunder  growled  far  away  in  the  north.  The  atmosphere 
was  heavy.  For  a  time  neither  spoke.  Then  Honoria  said, 
gently,  as  one  asking  a  favour  : — 

"Richard,  will  you  tell  me  about  that  home  of  yours? 
Cousin  Katherine  was  speaking  of  it  to  me  last  night." 

And  it  seemed  to  her  his  thought  must  have  journeyed  to 
some  far  distance,  and  found  difficulty  in  returning  thence,  it 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  571 

was  so  long  before  he  answered  her,  while  his  face  had  become 
set,  and  showed  colourless  as  wax  against  the  surrounding 
crimson  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  the  home  ! "  he  exclaimed,  shrugging  his  shoulders  just 
perceptibly.  "  It  doesn't  amount  to  very  much.  My  mother 
in  her  dear  unwisdom  of  faith  and  hope  magnifies  the  value  of 
it.     It's  just  an  idle  man's  fad." 

"A  fad  with  an  uncommon  amount  of  backbone  to  it, 
apparently." 

"That  depends  on  its  eventual  success.  It's  a  thing  to  be 
judged  not  by  intentions  but  by  results." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

Richard  looked  full  at  her,  spreading  out  his  hands,  and 
again  shrugging  his  shoulders  slightly.  Again  Miss  St.  Quentin 
accused  herself  of  a  defect  of  tact. 

"Isn't  it  rather  obvious  why  I  should  think  of  it?"  he 
asked.  "It  seemed  to  me  that,  in  a  very  mild  and  limited 
degree,  it  was  calculated  to  meet  a  want." — He  smiled  upon  her, 
quite  sweet-temperedly,  yet  once  more  there  was  a  flavour  of 
irony  in  his  tone. — "Of  course  hideous  creatures  and  disabled 
creatures  are  an  eyesore.  We  pity,  but  we  look  the  other  way. 
I  quite  accept  that.  They  are  a  nuisance,  since  they  are  a  stand- 
ing witness  to  the  fact  that  things,  here  below,  very  far  from 
always  work  smoothly  and  well,  and  that  there  are  disasters 
beyond  the  power  of  appUed  science  to  put  right.  The  ordinary 
human  being  doesn't  covet  to  be  forcibly  reminded  of  that  by 
means  of  a  living  object-lesson." 

Richard  shifted  his  position,  clasped  his  hands  behind  his 
head.  He  had  begun  speaking  without  idea  of  self-revelation  ; 
but  the  relief  of  speech,  after  long  self-repression,  took  him, 
goading  him  on.  Old  strains  of  feeling,  kept  under  by  conscious 
exercise  of  will,  asserted  themselves.  He  asked  neither  sym- 
pathy nor  help.  He  simply  called  from  off  those  shallows  and 
sand-bars  laid  bare  by  the  ebbing  tide  of  his  first  enthusiasm. 
He  protested,  wearied  by  the  spiritual  dryness  which  had  caused 
all  effort  to  prove  so  joyless  of  late.  To  have  sought  relief  in 
words  before  his  mother  would  have  been  uni)ardonable  he 
held.  She  had  borne  enough  from  him  in  the  past,  and  more 
than  enough.  But  to  permit  it  himself  in  the  presence  of  this 
young,  strong,  capable  woman  of  the  world,  was  very  different. 
She  came  out  of  the  swing  of  society  and  of  affairs,  of  large 
interests  in  politics  and  in  thought.  She  would  go  back  into 
those  again  very  shortly,  so  what  did  it  matter?  She  captivated 
him  and  incensed  him  alike.     His  relation  to  her  had  been  so 


572  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

fertile  of  contradictions — at  once  singularly  superficial  and  fugitive, 
and  singularly  vital.  He  did  not  care  to  analyse  his  own  feelings 
in  respect  of  her.  He  had,  so  he  told  himself,  never  quite  cared 
to  do  that.  She  had  wounded  his  pride  shrewdly  at  times,  still  he 
had  unquestioning  faith  in  her  power  of  comprehending  his  mean- 
ing as  she  sat  there,  graceful,  long-limbed,  indolent,  in  her  pale 
dress,  looking  towards  the  window,  the  light  on  her  face  revealing 
the  fine  squareness  of  the  chiselling  of  her  profile,  of  her  jaw, 
her  nostril,  and  brow.  She  appeared  so  free  of  spirit,  so  untram- 
melled, so  excellently  exalted  above  all  that  is  weak,  craven, 
smirched  by  impurity,  capable  of  baseness  or  deceit. 

"  But  naturally  with  me  the  case  is  different,"  he  went  on, 
his  voice  growing  deeper,  his  utterance  more  measured.  "  It  is 
futile  to  resent  being  reminded  of  that  which,  in  point  of  fact, 
you  never  forget.  It's  childish  for  the  pot  to  call  the  kettle 
black.  And  so  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  a  few  months  ago,  to 
put  away  all  such  childishness,  and  set  myself  to  gain  whatever 
advantage  I  could  from — well— from  my  own  blackness." 

Honoria  turned  her  head,  averting  her  face  yet  farther. 
Richard  could  only  see  the  outline  of  her  cheek.  She  had  never 
before  heard  him  make  so  direct  allusion  to  his  own  deformity, 
and  it  frightened  her  a  little.  Her  heart  beat  curiously  quick. 
For  it  was  to  her  as  though  he  compelled  her  to  draw  near 
and  penetrate  a  region  in  which,  gazing  thitherward  questioningly 
from  afar,  she  had  divined  the  residence  of  stern  and  intimate 
miseries,  inalienable,  unremittent,  taking  their  rise  in  an  almost 
alarming  remoteness  of  time  and  fundamentality  of  cause. 

"You  see,  in  plain  English,"  he  said,  "I  view  all  such 
unhappy  beings  from  the  inside,  not,  as  the  rest  of  you  do,  merely 
from  the  out.  I  belong  to  them  and  they  to  me.  It  is  not  an 
altogether  flattering  connection.  Only  recently,  I  am  afraid, 
have  I  had  the  honesty  to  acknowledge  it  !  But,  having  once 
done  so,  it  seems  only  reasonable  to  look  up  the  members  of 
my  unlucky  family  and  take  care  of  them,  and  if  possible  put 
them  through — not  on  the  lines  of  a  charitable  institution,  which 
must  inevitably  be  a  rather  mechanical,  step-mother  kind  of 
arrangement  at  best,  but  on  the  lines  of  family  affection,  of 
personal  friendship." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  Does  that  strike  you  as  too  unpractical  and  fantastic,  con- 
trary to  sound,  philanthropic  principle  and  practice  ?  " 

Honoria  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  based  on  a  higher  law  than  any  of  modern  organised 
philanthropy,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  queer  unsteadiness 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  573 

in  it.     "  It  goes  back  to  the  Gospels — to  the  matter  of  giving  your 
life  for  your  friend." 

As  she  spoke,  Honoria  rose.  She  went  across  and  stood 
at  the  window.  Furtively  she  dabbed  her  pocket  handkerchief 
against  her  eyes. 

"Well,  after  all,  one  must  give  one's  life  for  something  or 
other,  you  know,"  Richard  remarked,  "  or  the  days  would  become 
a  little  too  intolerably  dull,  and  then  one  might  be  tempted  to 
make  short  work  of  life  altogether." 

Honoria  returned  to  her  chair  again  and  sat  down  —  this 
time  not  on  the  arm  of  it  but  in  ordinary  conventional  fashion. 
She  faced  Richard.  He  observed  that  her  eyelids  were  slightly 
swollen,  slightly  red.  This  gave  an  extraordinary  effect  of 
gentleness  to  her  expression. 

"  How  do  you  find  them — the  members  of  your  sad  family  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  in  all  sorts  of  ways  and  of  places  !  Knott  swears  it  is 
contrary  to  reason,  an  interfering  with  the  beneficent  tendency  of 
nature  to  kill  off  the  unfit.  Yet  he  works  like  a  horse  to  help 
me — even  talks  of  giving  up  his  practice  and  moving  to  Farley 
Row,  so  as  to  be  near  the  headquarters  of  my  establishment. 
The  lease  of  a  rather  charming,  old  house  there  fell  in  this  year. 
Fortunately  the  tenant  did  not  want  to  renew,  so  I  am  having 
that  made  comfortable  for  them." 

Richard  smiled.  A  greater  sense  of  well-being  animated 
him.  Out  of  the  world  she  had  come,  back  into  the  world  she 
would  go.  Meanwhile  she  was  nobly  fair  to  look  upon,  she 
was  pure  of  heart,  intercourse  with  her  made  for  the  justification 
of  high  purposes  and  unselfish  experiment — so  he  thought. 

"  I  am  growing  as  keen  on  bagging  a  fine  cripple  as  another 
man  might  be  on  bagging  a  fine  tiger,"  he  said.  "The  whole 
matter  at  bottom,  I  suspect,  turns  on  the  instinct  of  sport. — 
Only  the  week  before  last  1  acf}uired  a  rather  terribly  superior 
specimen — a  lad  of  eighteen,  a  factory  hand  in  Westchurch.  He 
was  caught  by  some  loose  gearing  and  swept  into  the  machinery. 
What  is  left  of  him — if  it  survives,  which  it  had  much  better  not, 
and  yet  I  can't  help  hc)i)ing  it  will,  he  is  such  a  plurky,  sweet- 
natured  fellow — will  ref}uire  a  nurse  for  the  rest  of  its  life.  So  I 
am  pushing  on  the  work  at  l-'arley,  that  the  home  may  be  ready 
when  we  get  him  out  of  hosjjital. — V>y  the  way,  I  iiuist  go  to- 
morrow and  stir  up  the  workmen.  Do  you  care  to  come  and  see 
it  all,  if  the  afternoon  is  fine  and  not  too  hot  ?" 

And  Honoria  agreed.  Nor  did  she  shrink  when  Richard 
slipping  out  of  his  chair  picked  up  his  crutches. — "  I  suppose  it 


574  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

is  about  time  to  get  ready  for  the  Grimshott  function,"  he  said, 
— She  walked  beside  him  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  passed  into 
the  neutral-tinted,  tapestry-hung  dining-room.  There  the  young 
man  waited  a  moment.  He  looked  not  at  her  but  straight  before 
him. 

"Honoria,"  he  said  suddenly,  almost  harshly,  "you  and 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  used  to  be  great  friends.  For  more  than  a 
year  I  have  held  no  communication  with  her,  except  through  my 
lawyers.     Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  her  ?  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin  hesitated. 

"  Nothing  very  direct — I  heard  from  de  Vallorbes  about  three 
months  ago.  I  don't  think  I  am  faithless — indeed  I  held  on  to 
her  as  long  as  I  could,  Richard  !  I  am  not  squeamish,  and  then 
I  always  prefer  to  stand  by  the  woman.  But  whatever  de 
Vallorbes  may  have  been,  he  pulled  himself  together  rather 
admirably  from  the  time  he  went  into  the  army.  He  wanted  to 
keep  straight  and  to  live  respectably.  And — I  hate  to  say  so — but 
she  treated  him  a  little  too  flagrantly.     And  then — and  then  " — 

Honoria  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  shook  back  her 
head  angrily. 

"  It  wasn't  one  man,  Richard." 

Dickie  went  white  to  the  lips. 

"  I  know  that,"  he  said. 

He  moved  forward  a  few  steps. 

"  Who  is  it  now  ?     Destournelle  ?  " 

"Oh  no — no" — Honoria  said.  "Some  Russian — from  the 
extreme  east — Kazan,  I  think  —  prince,  millionaire,  drunken 
savage.  But  he  adores  her.  He  squanders  money  upon  her, 
surrounds  her  with  barbaric  state.  This  is  de  Vallorbes'  version 
of  the  affair.  The  scandal  is  open  and  notorious.  But  she  and 
her  prince  together  have  great  power.  Something  will  eventually 
be  arranged  in  the  way  of  a  marriage.  She  will  not  come 
back." 


CHAPTER  IX 

TELLING    HOW    LUDOVIC    QUA"i^-F,    AND    HONORIA    ST.    QTTKNTIN 
WATCHED    THE    TROUT    RISE    IN    THE    LONG    WATER 

SOME  hour  and  a  half  later  Miss  St.  Quentin  passed  down 
the  flight  of  stone  steps,  leading  from  the  southern  end  of 
the  terrace  to  the  grass  slopes  of  the  park.  Arrived  at  the  lowest 
step  she  gathered  the  skirt  of  her  dress  up  over  one  arm,  thereby 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  S7S 

securing  greater  freedom  of  movement,  and  displaying  a  straight 
length  of  pink  and  white  petticoat.  Thus  prepared  she  fared 
forth  over  the  still  smoking  turf.  The  storm  had  passed,  but 
the  atmosphere  remained  thick  and  humid.  A  certain  opulence 
of  colour  obtained  in  the  landscape.  The  herbs  in  the  grass, 
vild-thyme,  wild -balm,  and  star -flowered  camomile,  smelt 
strongly  aromatic  as  she  trod  them  under  foot,  while  the  beds 
of  bracken,  dried  and  yellowed  by  the  drought,  gave  off  a  sharp,, 
woody  scent. 

Usually,  when  thus  alone  and  in  contact  with  nature,  such 
matters  claimed  Honoria's  whole  attention,  ministering  to  her 
love  of  earth-lore  and  of  Mother  Earth — producing  in  her  silent 
worship  of  those  primitive  deities  who  at  once  preside  over  and 
inhabit  the  waste-land  and  the  tilth,  the  untamed  forest  and  the 
pastures  where  heavy-uddered,  sweet-breathed  cows  lie  in  the 
deep,  meadow  grass,  the  garden  ground,  all  pleasant  orchard 
places,  and  the  broad  promise  of  the  waving  crops.  But  this, 
afternoon,  although  the  colour,  odour,  warmth,  and  all  the  many 
voices  praising  the  refreshment  of  the  rain,  were  sensibly  present 
to  her,  Honoria's  thought  failed  to  be  engrossed  by  them.  For 
she  was  in  process  of  worshipping  younger  and  more  compas- 
sionate deities,  sadder,  because  more  human  ones,  whose  office 
lies  not  with  Nature  in  her  eternal  repose  and  fecundity,  but  with 
man  in  his  eternal  failure  and  unrest.  Not  august  Ceres,  giver 
of  the  golden  harvest-fields,  or  fierce  Cybele,  the  goddess  of  the 
many  paps,  but  spare,  brown-habited  St,  Francis,  serving  his 
brethren  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet,  held  empire  over  her 
meditations. — In  imagination  she  saw — saw  with  only  too  lively 
realisation  of  detail — that  eighteen-year-old  lad,  in  the  factory  at 
\Vestchurch,  drawn  up — all  the  unspent  hopes  and  pleasures  of 
his  young  manhood  active  in  him — by  the  loose  gearing,  into  the 
merciless  vortex  of  revolving  wheels ;  and  there,  without  pre- 
paration, without  pause  of  warning,  without  any  dignity  of 
shouting  multitude,  of  arena  or  of  stake,  martyred — converted 
in  a  few  horrible  seconds  from  health  and  wholeness  into  a 
formless  lump  of  human  waste.  And  up  and  down  the  land,, 
as  she  reflected,  wherever  the  great  systems  of  trade  and  labour, 
wliich  build  up  the  mechanical  and  material  prosperity  of  our 
day,  go  forward,  kindred  tilings  happen — let  alone  question  of  all 
those  persons  who  are  born  into  the  world  already  injured,  or 
bearing  the  seeds  of  foul  and  disfiguring  diseases  in  their  organs 
and  their  blood.  Verily  Richard  Calmady's  sad  family  was 
a  rather  terribly  large  one,  well  calculated  to  maintain  its 
numbers,  even    to   increase  !     For   neither   the   age   of  human 


576  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sacrifice  nor  of  cannibalism  is  really  done  with  ;  nor  is  the  practice 
of  them  limited  to  savage  peoples  in  distant  lands  or  far-away 
isles  of  the  sea.  They  form  the  basis  actually,  though  in  differ- 
ing of  outward  aspect,  of  all  existing  civilisations,  just  as  they 
formed  the  basis  of  all  past  civilisations — a  basis,  moreover,  per- 
petually recemented  and  relaid.  And,  as  she  considered — being 
courageous  and  fair-minded — it  was  inevitable  that  this  should  be 
so,  unthinkable  that  it  should  be  otherwise,  since  it  made,  at 
least  indirectly,  for  the  prosperity  of  the  majority  and  develop- 
ment of  the  race.  Considering  which — the  apparently  cruel  para- 
dox and  irony  of  it — Honoria  swung  down  past  the  scattered 
hawthorns,  thick  with  ruddy  fruit,  across  the  fragrant  herbs 
and  short,  sweet  turf,  through  the  straggling  fern-brakes,  which 
impeded  her  progress  plucking  at  her  skirts,  careless  of  the 
rich  colour  and  ample  beauty  out-spread  before  her. 

But  soon,  as  a  bird  after  describing  far-ranging  circles  drops 
at  last  upon  the  from  at-first-determined  spot,  so  her  thought 
settled  down  with  relief  yet  in  a  way  unwillingly — and  that  not 
out  of  any  lingering  repulsion,  but  rather  from  a  certain  proud 
modesty  and  self-respect — upon  Richard  Calmady  himself.  Not 
only  did  he  apprehend  all  this,  far  more  clearly,  more  intimately 
than  she  could — had  he  not  spoken  of  the  advantages  of  a 
certain  blackness  ? — Honoria's  vision  became  somewhat  indistinct 
— but  he  set  out  to  deal  with  it  in  a  practical  manner.  And  in 
this  connection  she  began  to  understand  how  it  had  come  about 
that  through  years  of  ingratitude  and  neglect,  and  of  loose-living 
on  his  part,  his  mother  could  still  remain  patient,  could  endure, 
and  supremely  love.  For  behind  the  obvious,  the  almost  coarse, 
tragedy  and  consequent  appeal  of  the  man's  deformity,  there 
was  the  further  appeal  of  something  very  admirable  in  the  man 
himself,  for  the  emergence  and  due  blossoming  of  which  it 
would  be  very  possible,  very  worth  while,  for  whoso  once 
recognised  its  existence  to  wait.  John  Knott  had  been  right 
in  his  estimate  of  Richard.  Ludovic  Quayle  had  been  right. 
Lady  Calmady  had  been  right. — Honoria  had  begun  to  believe 
that,  even  before  Richard  had  come  forth  from  his  self-imposed 
seclusion,  in  the  spring.  The  belief  had  increased  during  her 
subsequent  intercourse  with  him,  had  been  reinforced  during  her 
few  days'  visit  at  Whitsuntide.  Yet,  until  now,  she  had  never 
freely  and  openly  admitted  it.  She  wondered  why?  And  then 
hastily  she  put  such  wondering  from  her.  Again  a  certain  proud 
modesty  held  her  back.  She  did  not  want  to  think  of  herself 
in  relation  to  him,  or  of  him  in  relation  to  herself.  She  wished, 
for  a  reason  she   refused   to   define,  to  exclude   the   personal 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  577 

element.  Doing  that  she  could  permit  herself  larger  latitude 
of  admiration.  His  acknowledgment  of  fellowship  with,  and 
obligation  of  friendship  towards,  all  victims  of  physical  disaster 
kindled  her  enthusiasm.  She  perceived  that  it  was  contrary  to 
the  man's  natural  arrogance,  natural  revolt  against  the  humilia- 
tion put  upon  him — a  rather  superb  overcoming,  in  short,  of 
nature  by  grace.  Nor  was  it  the  outgrowth  of  any  morbid  or 
sentimental  emotion.  It  had  no  tincture  of  the  hysteric  element. 
It  took  its  rise  in  conviction  and  in  experiment.  For  Richard, 
though  still  young,  struck  her  as  remarkably  mature.  He  had 
lived  his  life,  sinned  his  sias — she  did  not  doubt  that — suffered 
unusual  sorrows,  bought  his  experience  in  the  open  market  and 
at  a  sufficiently  high  price.  And  this  was  the  result !  It  pleased 
her  imagination  by  its  essential  unworldliness,  its  idealism  and 
individuality  of  outlook.  She  went  back  on  her  earlier  judgment 
of  him,  first  formulated  as  a  complaint, — he  was  strong,  whether 
for  good  or  evil,  now  unselfishly  for  good ;  and  Honoria,  being 
herself  among  the  strong,  supremely  valued  and  welcomed 
strength.  And  so  it  happened  that  the  tone  of  her  medi- 
tations altered,  being  increasingly  attuned  to  a  serious,  but  very 
real  congratulation ;  for  she  perceived  that  the  tragedy  of 
human  life  also  constitutes  the  magnificence  of  human  life, 
since  it  affords,  and  always  must  afford,  supreme  opportunity  of 
heroism. 

She  had  traversed  the  open  space  of  turf,  and  come  to  the 
tall,  iron  hurdles  enclosing  the  paddock.  She  folded  her  arms 
on  the  topmost  bar  of  the  iron  gate  and  stood  there.  She 
wanted  to  rest  a  little  in  these  thoughts  that  had  come  to  her. 
She  was  not  quite  sure  of  them  as  yet.  But,  if  they  meant  any- 
thing, if  they  were  other  than  mere  rhetoric,  they  must  mean  a 
very  great  deal,  into  harmony  with  which  it  would  be  necessary 
to  bring  her  thought  upon  many  other  subjects.  She  was 
conscious  of  an  excitement,  a  reaching  out  towards  some  but- 
half-disclosed  glory,  some  new  and  very  exquisite  fulness  of  life. 
But  was  it  new,  after  all  ?  Was  it  not  rather  the  at-last-per- 
mitted  activity  of  faculties  and  sensibilities  hitherto  refused 
development,  voluntarily,  perhaps  cowardly,  held  in  check  and 
repressed  ?  She  appeared  to  be  making  acquaintance  with  un- 
expected depths  of  apprehension  and  emotion  in  herself.  And 
this,  for  cause  unknown,  brought  her  into  more  lively  commerce 
with  her  immediate  surroundings  and  the  sentiment  of  them. 
Her  eyes  rested  upon  them  questioningly,  as  though  they  might 
afford  a  tally  to,  perhaps  an  cxj)lanation  of,  the  strange,  yet 
lovely  emotion  which  had  invaded  her. 

37 


578  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Here  in  the  valley,  notwithstanding  the  recent  drought,  the 
grass  was  lush.  Across  the  paddock,  just  within  the  circuit  of 
the  far  railings,  a  grove  of  large  beech  trees  broke  the  expanse 
of  living  green.  Beyond,  seen  beneath  their  down-sweeping 
branches,  the  surface  of  the  Long  Water  repeated  the  hot  purple, 
the  dun-colour  and  silver-pink,  of  the  sky.  On  the  opposite 
slope,  extending  from  the  elm  avenue  to  the  outlying  masses  of 
the  woods  and  upward  to  the  line  of  oaks  which  run  parallel 
with  the  park  palings,  were  cornlands.  The  wheat,  a  red-gold, 
was  already  for  the  most  part  bound  in  shocks.  A  company  of 
women,  wearing  lilac  and  pink  sun-bonnets  and  all-round,  blue, 
linen  aprons  faded  by  frequent  washing  to  a  fine  clearness  of  tone, 
came  down  over  the  blond  stubble.  They  carried,  in  little 
baskets  and  shining  tins,  tea  for  the  white-shirted  harvesters 
who  were  busy  setting  up  the  storm-fallen  sheaves.  They 
laughed  and  talked  together,  and  their  voices  came  to  Honoria 
with  a  pleasant  quality  of  sound.  Two  stumbling  baby-children, 
hand  in  hand,  followed  them,  as  did  a  small,  white-and-tan 
spotted  dog.  One  woman  was  bare-headed  and  wore  a  black 
bodice,  which  gave  a  singular  value  to  her  figure  amid  the  all- 
obtaining  yellow  of  the  corn. 

The  scene  in  its  simple  and  homely  charm  held  the  poetry 
of  that  happier  side  of  labour,  of  that  most  ancient  of  all 
industries — the  husbandman's — and  of  the  generous  giving  of 
the  soil.  Set  in  a  frame  of  opulently  coloured  woodland  and 
sky,  the  stately  red-brick  and  freestone  house  crowning  the 
high  land  and  looking  forth  upon  it  all,  the  whole  formed,  to 
Honoria's  thinking,  a  very  noble  picture.  And  then,  of  a  sudden, 
in  the  midst  of  her  quiet  enjoyment  of  it  and  a  tenderness 
which  the  sight  of  it  somehow  begot  in  her,  she  was  seized 
by  sharp,  unreasoning  regret  that  she  must  so  soon  leave  it. 
Unreasoning  regret  that  she  had  engaged  to  go  abroad  this 
winter,  with  poor,  pretty,  frivolous,  young  Lady  Tobermory— 
spoilt  child  of  society  and  of  wealth — now  half-crazed,  rendered 
desperate,  by  the  fear  that  disease,  which  had  laid  a  threatening 
finger  on  her,  might  lay  its  whole  hand,  cutting  short  her  play- 
time and  breaking  her  many  toys.  Of  anything  other  than  toys 
and  playtime  she  had  no  conception. — "Those  brutes  of  doctors 
tell  Tobermory  I  must  give  up  low  gowns,"  she  wrote.  "And 
I  adore  my  neck  and  shoulders.  Everyone  always  has  admired 
them.  It  makes  me  utterly  miserable  to  cover  them  up.  And 
now  that  I  am  thinner  I  could  have  my  gowns  cut  lower  than 
ever,  nearly  down  to  my  waist,  which  makes  it  all  the  more 
intolerable.     I  went  to  Dessaix  about  it,  went  over  to  Paris  on 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  579 

purpose,  though  Tobermory  was  wild  at  my  travelling  in  the 
heat.  He — Dessaix,  I  mean,  not  poor  T. — was  just  as  nice  as 
possible,  and  promised  to  invent  new  styles.  Still,  of  course,  I 
must  look  dowdy  at  night  in  a  high  gown.  Everybody  does.  I 
shall  feel  exactly  like  our  clergyman's  wife  at  Ellerhay,  when  she 
comes  to  dine  with  us  at  Christmas  and  Easter  and  once  in  the 
summer.  I  refuse  to  have  her  oftener  than  that.  She  has  a 
long  back  and  about  fourteen  children,  which  she  seems  to 
think  a  great  credit  to  her.  I  don't,  as  they  are  ugly,  and  she 
is  dreadfully  poor.  She  wears  her  Sunday  silk  with  lace  xvound 
about,  don't  you  know,  but  wound  tight.  That  means  full  dress. 
I  am  buying  some  lace,  Duchesse  at  three  and  a  half  guineas  a 
yard.  I  suppose  I  shall  come  to  winding  that  of  an  evening. 
Then  I  shall  look  like  her.  It  makes  me  cry  dreadfully,  and,  as 
I  tell  Tobermory,  that  is  worse  for  me  than  any  number  of  lungs. 
Darling  H.,  if  you  really  love  me  in  the  least,  bring  nothing  but 
high  gowns.  Perhaps  I  mayn't  mind  quite  so  much  if  I  never 
see  you  in  a  low  one." — There  had  been  much  more  to  the  same 
effect,  pathetic  in  its  inadequacy  and  egoism.  Only,  as  Honoria 
reflected,  that  is  a  style  of  pathos  dangerously  liable  to  pall  upon 
one.  She  sighed,  for  the  prospect  of  spending  the  winter  parti- 
cipating in  the  frivolities,  and  striving  to  restrain  the  indiscretions 
of  this  little,  damaged  butterfly,  did  not  smile  upon  her.  She  might 
have  stayed  on  here,  stayed  on  at  Brockhurst,  and  worked  over 
the  dear  place  as  she  had  so  often  done  before — helping  Lady 
Calmady.  Why  had  she  promised? — Well — because  she  had 
been  rather  restless,  unsettled,  and  at  loose  ends  of  late — 

Whereupon  the  young  lady  bent  down  and  unfastened  the 
padlock  with  a  certain  decision  of  movement,  closed  the  gate, 
relocking  it  carefully  behind  her;  and  started  off  across  the  deep 
grass  of  the  paddock,  her  pale  face  very  serious,  her  small  head 
held  high.  She  would  keep  faith  with  Evelyn  Tobermory.  Of 
course  she  would  keep  faith  with  her.  It  was  not  only  a  matter 
of  honour,  but  of  expediency.  It  was  much,  very  much,  better 
to  go.  Yet  whence  this  sudden  heat  proceeded,  and  why  the 
Egyptian  journey  assumed  suddenly  such  paramount  desirability, 
she  carefully  did  not  stay  to  inquire — an  omiNsion  not,  perhaps, 
without  significance. 

The  half-dozen  dainty  fillies,  meanwhile,  who  had  eyed  her 
shyly  from  their  station  beneath  the  beech  trees,  trotted  gently 
towards  her  with  friendly  whinnyings,  their  fine  ears  pricked, 
their  long  tails  carried  well  away  in  a  sweeping  curve.  Honoria 
went  on  to  meet  them.  She  was  glad  of  something  to  occupy 
her  hands,  some  outside,  concrete  thing  to  occupy  her  thought. 


58o  SIR  RICHxA^RD  CALMADY 

She  took  the  foremost,  a  dark  bay,   by  the  nose-strap  of  its 
leather  head-stall,  patted  the  beast's  sleek  neck,  looked  into  its 
prominent,  heavy-lidded  eyes, — the  blue  filru  over  the  velvet-like 
iris  and  pupil  of  them  giving  a  singular  softness  of  effect, — drew 
down  the  fine,  aristocratic  head,  and  kissed  the  little  star  where 
the  hair  turned  in  the  centre  of  the  smooth,  hard  forehead.     It 
was  as  perfectly  bred  as  she  was  herself — so  clean,  so  fresh,  that 
to  touch  it  was  wholly  pleasant !     Then  she  backed  away  from  it, 
holding  it  at  arm's-length,  noting  how  every  line  of  its  limbs  and 
body  was   graceful  and  harmonious,  full  of  the  promise  of  easy 
strength,  easy  freedom  of  movement.     That  it  was  a  trifle  blown 
out  in  barrel,  from  being  at  grass,  only  gave  its  contours  an  added 
suavity.      It  was  a  lovely  beast,  a  delicious  beast !     Honoria 
smiled  upon  it,  talked  to,  patted  and  coaxed  it.     While  another 
young  beauty,  waxing  brave,  pushed  its  black  muzzle  under  her 
arm,  and  lipped  at  her  jacket  pockets  in  search  of  bread  and  of 
apples.     And,  these  good  things  once  discovered,  the  rest  of  the 
drove  came  about  her,  civilly,  a  trifle  proudly,  as  befitted  such 
fine  ladies,   with   no   pushings   and   bustlings  of  vulgar  greed. 
And  they  charmed  her.     She  was  very  much  at  one  with  them. 
She  fed  them  fearlessly,  thrusting  one  aside  in  favour  of  another, 
giving  each  reward  in  due  turn.     She  passed  her  hands  down 
over  their  slender  limbs.     The  warm  colours  and  the  gloss  of 
them  were  pleasant  to  her  eyes.     And  they  smelt  sweet,  as  did 
the  trampled  grass  beneath  their  unshod  hoofs.     For  a  while  the 
human  problem — its  tragedy,  magnificence,  inadequacy  alike — 
ceased  to  trouble  her.     The  poetry  of  these  beautiful,  innocent, 
clean-feeding  beasts  was,  for  the  moment,  sufficient  in  and  by 
itself. 

But,  even  while  she  thus  played  with  and  rejoiced  in  them, 
remembrance  of  their  owner  came  back  to  her,  his  maiming,  as 
against  their  perfection  of  finish,  the  lamentable  disparity  between 
his  physical  equipment  and  theirs.  Honoria's  expression  lost  its 
nonchalant  gaiety.  She  pushed  her  gende,  equine  comrades 
away  to  left  and  right,  not  that  they  ceased  to  please  but  that 
the  human  problem  and  the  tragedy  of  it  once  more  became 
dominant.  She  walked  on  across  the  paddock  rapidly,  while  the 
fillies,  forming  up  behind  her,  followed  in  single  file  treading  a 
sinuous  pathway  through  the  grass,  the  foremost  one  still  push- 
ing its  black  muzzle,  now  and  again,  under  her  elbow  and 
nibbling  insinuatingly  at  her  empty  jacket  pockets. — If  only  that 
horrible  misfortune  had  not  befallen  Richard  Calmady !  If— 
if —  But  then,  had  it  not  befallen  him,  would  he  ever  have  been 
excited  to  so  admirable  effort,  would  he  ever  have  attained  so 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  581 

absorbing  and  vigorous  a  personality  as  he  actually  had  ?  Again 
her  thought  turned  on  itself,  to  provocation  of  momentary  im- 
patience.— Honoria  unfastened  the  second  padlock  Avith  a  return 
of  her  former  decision.  There  were  conclusions  she  wished  in- 
stinctively to  avoid,  from  which  she  instinctively  desired  escape. 
She  forced  aside  the  all-too-affectionate,  bay  filly  who  crowded 
upon  her,  shot  back  the  bar  of  the  gate  and  relocked  it.  Then, 
once  again,  she  kissed  the  pretty  beast  on  the  forehead  as  it 
stretched  its  neck  over  the  top  of  the  gate. 

"Good-bye,  dear  lass,"  she  said.  "Win  your  races  and, 
when  the  time  comes,  drop  foals  as  handsome  as  yourself;  and 
thank  your  stars  you're  under  orders,  and  so  have  small  chance 
to  muddle  your  affairs — as  with  your  good  looks,  my  dear,  you 
most  assuredly  would,  like  all  the  rest  of  us." 

With  which  excellent  advice  she  swung  away  down  the  last 
twenty  yards  of  the  avenue  and  out  on  to  the  roadway  of  the 
red-brick  and  freestone  bridge.  Here  in  the  open,  above  the 
water,  the  air  was  sensibly  fresher.  From  the  paddock  the 
deserted  fillies  whinnied  to  her.  The  voices  of  the  harvesters 
came  cheerily  from  the  cornland.  The  men  sat  in  the  blond 
stubble,  backed  by  a  range  of  upstanding  sheaves.  The  women, 
bright  in  those  frail  blues,  clear  pinks,  and  lilacs,  knelt  serving 
their  meal.  She  of  the  black  bodice  stood  apart,  her  hands 
upon  her  hips,  looking  towards  the  bridge  and  its  solitary 
occupant.  The  tan-and-white  spotted  dog  ran  to  and  fro  chasing 
field-mice  and  yapped.  The  baby-children  staggered  after  it, 
uttering  excited  squeakings  and  cries.  The  lower  cloud  had 
parted  in  the  west,  disclosing  an  upper  stratum  of  pale  gold, 
which  widened  upward  and  outward  as  the  minutes  passed. 
Save  immediately  below,  in  the  shadow  of  the  bridge,  this  found 
reflection  in  the  water,  overlaying  it  as  with  the  blond  of  the 
stubble  and  warmer  tones  of  the  sheaves.  Honoria  sat  down 
sideways  on  the  coping  of  the  parapet.  She  watched  the  moor- 
hens, dark  of  plumage,  a  splash  of  fiery  orange  on  their  jaunty 
little  heads,  swim  out  with  restless,  jerky  motion  from  the  edge 
of  the  reed-beds  and  break  up  the  shining  surface  with  diverging 
lines  of  rippling,  brown  shadow.  In  the  shade  cast  by  the 
bridge,  trout  rose  at  the  dancing  gnats  and  flies.  She  could  see 
them  rush  upward  through  the  brown  water.  Sometimes  they 
leapt  clear  of  it,  exposing  their  silver  bellies,  pink-spotted  sides, 
and  the  olive-green  of  their  backs.  They  dropped  again  with  a 
flop,  and  rings  circled  outward  from  the  place  of  their  disappear- 
ing. 

All  this  Honoria  saw,  but  dreamily,  pensively.     She  realised, 


582  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

as  never  before,  that,  much  as  she  might  love  this  piace  and  the 
life  of  it,  she  was  a  guest  only,  a  pilgrim  and  sojourner.  The 
absoluteness  of  her  own  independence  ceased  to  please. — "  Me 
this  unchartered  freedom  tries."  As  she  quoted  the  line, 
Honoria  smiled.  These  were,  indeed,  new  aspects  of  herself! 
Where  would  they  carry  her,  both  in  thought  and  in  action  ?  It 
was  a  little  alarming  to  contemplate  that.  And  then  her  pen- 
siveness  increased,  a  strange  nostalgia  taking  her — amounting 
almost  to  physical  pain — for  that  same  but-half-disclosed  glory, 
that  same  new  and  very  exquisite  fulness  of  life,  apprehension 
of  which  had  lately  been  vouchsafed  to  her.  If  she  could 
remain  very  still  and  undisturbed,  if  she  could  empty  her 
consciousness  of  all  else,  bend  her  whole  will  to  an  act  at  once 
of  determination  and  of  reception,  perhaps,  it  would  be  given 
her  clearly  to  see  and  understand.  The  idealist,  the  mystic, 
were  very  present  in  Honoria  just  then.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  the  shining  surface  of  the  water.  A  conviction  grew  upon 
her  that,  could  she  maintain  a  certain  mental  and  emotional 
equilibrium,  something  of  permanent  and  very  vital  importance 
must  take  place. 

Suddenly  she  heard  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  of  the  road- 
way. She  started,  turned  deliberately,  holding  in  check  the 
agitation  which  possessed  her,  to  find  herself  confronted  by 
the  tall,  pre-eminently  modern  and  mundane  figure  of  Ludovic 
Quayle.  Honoria  gave  herself  a  little  shake  of  uncontrollable 
impatience.  For  less  than  twopence-halfpenny  she  could  have 
given  the  very  gentlemanlike  intruder  a  shake  too  !  He  let  her 
down  with  a  bump,  so  to  speak,  from  regions  mysterious  and 
supernal,  to  regions  altogether  social  and  of  this  world  worldly. 
And  yet  she  knew  that  such  feelings  were  not  a  little  hard  and 
unjust  as  entertained  towards  poor  Mr.  Quayle. 

The  young  man,  in  any  case,  was  happily  ignorant  of  having 
offended.  He  sauntered  out  on  to  the  bridge,  hat  in  hand,  his 
head  a  trifle  on  one  side,  his  long  neck  directed  slightly  forward, 
his  expression  that  of  polite  and  intimate  amusement  —  but 
whether  amusement  at  his  own,  or  his  fellow-creatures'  expense, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  declare. 

"  At  last,  I  find  you,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  said. 
"And  I  have  sought  for  you  as  for  lost  treasure.  Forgive  a 
biblical  form  of  address — a  reminiscence  merely  of  my  father's 
morning  ministrations  to  my  unmarried  sisters,  the  footmen,  and 
the  maids.  He  reads  them  the  most  surprising  little  histories  at 
times,  which  make  me  positively  blush  ;  but  that's  a  detail.  To 
account  for  my  invasion   of  your   idyllic  solitude — I   learned 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  583 

incidentally  you  proposed  coming  here  from  Ormiston  this  week. 
I  thought  I  would  venture  on  an  early  attempt  to  find  you.  But 
I  drew  the  house  blank,  though  assisted  by  Winter — the  terrace 
also  blank.  Then  from  the  troco-ground  I  beheld  that  which 
looked  promising,  coquetting  with  Dickie's  yearlings.  So  I 
followed  on  to  know — my  father  and  the  maids  again — followed 
on  to — to  my  reward." 

Mr.  Quayle  stood  directly  in  front  of  her.  He  spoke  with 
admirable  urbanity,  yet  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  usual. 
His  beautifully  formed  mouth  pursed  itself  up  between  the 
sentences,  with  that  effect  of  indulgent  superiority  which  was  at 
once  so  attractive  and  so  excessively  provoking.  But,  for  all 
that,  Honoria  perceived  that  for  once  in  his  life  the  young  man 
was  distinctly,  not  to  say  acutely,  nervous. 

"The  reward  will  be  limited  I'm  afraid,"  she  replied,  "for 
my  temper  is  unaccountably  out  of  sorts  this  afternoon." 

"  And,  if  one  may  make  bold  to  inquire,  why  out  of  sorts, 
dear  Miss  St.  Quentin?" 

He  sat  down  on  the  parapet  near  her,  crossed  his  legs,  and 
fell  to  nursing  his  left  knee.  The  woman  of  the  black  bodice 
went  up  across  the  pale  stubble  to  her  companions.  She  talked 
to  them,  nodding  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge. 

"  I  have  promised  to  do  a  certain  thing,  and,  having  promised, 
of  course  I  must  do  it." 

Honoria  looked  away  towards  the  harvesters  up  there  among 
the  gold  of  the  corn. 

"  And  yet,  now  I  have  committed  myself,  thinking  it  over  I 
find  I  dislike  doing  it  warmly." 

"The  statement  of  the  case  is  just  a  trifle  vague,"  Mr.  Quayle 
remarked.  "But — if  one  may  brave  a  suggestion — supersede  a 
first  duty  by  a  second  and,  of  course,  a  greater.  With  a  little  exer- 
cise of  imagination,  a  little  goodwill,  a  little  assistance  from  a  true 
friend  thrown  in  perhaps,  it  is  generally  quite  possible  to  manage 
that,  I  think." 

"And  you  are  prepared  to  play  the  part  of  the  true  friend?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Then  go  to  Cairo  for  the  winter  with  Evelyn  Tobermory. 
You  must  take  no  low  gowns — ah  !  poor  little  soul,  it  is  pathetic, 
though — she's  forbidden  to  wear  them.  And — let  me  stay  here," 
Honoria  said. 

Ludovic  gazed  at  his  hands  as  they  clasped  his  knee,  then  he 
looked  sideways  at  his  companion. 

"Here,  meaning  —  meaning  Brockhurst,  dear  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ? "  he  asked  very  sweetly. 


584  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Meaning  England,"  she  declared. 

"  England  ? — ah  !  really.  That  pleases  me  better.  Patriotism 
is  an  excellent  virtue.  The  remark  is  not  a  wholly  original  one, 
but  it  comes  in  handy  just  now,  all  the  same." 

The  young  lady's  head  went  up.  She  was  displeased. 
Turning  sideways,  she  leaned  both  hands  on  the  stonework  and 
stared  down  into  the  water.     But  speedily  she  repented. 

"  See  how  the  fish  rise,"  she  said.  "  It  really  is  a  pity  one 
hasn't  a  fly-rod." 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  you  once  told  me  that  you 
objected  to  taking  life,  except  in  self-defence  or  for  purposes  of 
commissariat.  The  trout  would  almost  certainly  be  muddy. 
And  I  am  quite  unconscious  of  being  exposed  to  any  danger — at 
least  from  the  trout." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  water. 

"  I  told  you  my  temper  was  out  of  sorts,"  she  said. 

"  Is  that  a  warning  ? "  Ludovic  inquired,  with  the  utmost 
mildness. 

Honoria  was  busy  feeling  in  her  jacket  pockets.  At  the 
bottom  of  them  a  few  crumbs  remained.  She  emptied  these  on 
to  the  surface  of  the  water,  by  the  simple  expedient  of  turning 
the  pockets  inside  out. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  warnings,"  she  said.  "  I  state  a 
plain  fact.     You  can  make  of  it  what  you  please." 

The  young  man  rose  leisurely  from  his  place,  sauntered 
across  the  roadway,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  looking  down 
the  valley.  The  harvesters,  their  meal  finished,  moved  away 
towards  the  farther  side  of  the  great  cornfield.  The  women 
followed  them  slowly,  gleaning  as  they  went.  It  was  very  quiet. 
And  again  there  came  to  Honoria  that  ache  of  longing  for  the 
but-half-disclosed  glory  and  fulness  of  life.  It  was  there,  an 
actuality — could  she  but  find  it,  had  she  but  the  courage  and 
the  wit.  Then,  from  the  open  moorland  beyond  the  park  palings 
came  the  sound  of  horses  trotting  sharply.  Ludovic  Quayle 
turned  and  recrossed  the  road.  He  smiled,  but  his  superfine 
manner,  his  effect  of  slight  impertinence  were,  for  the  moment, 
in  abeyance. 

"Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  said,  "what  is  the  use  of  fencing  any 
longer  ?  1  have  done  that  which  I  engaged  to  do,  namely  dis- 
played the  patience  of  innumerable  asses.  And — if  I  may  be 
pardoned  mentioning  such  a  thing — the  years  pass.  Really  they 
do.  And  I  seem  to  get  no  forwarder !  My  position  becomes 
slightly  ludicrous." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  Honoria  cried  penitently. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  585 

"  That  I  am  ludicrous  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  protested,  "  that  I  have  been  unreasonable  and 
traded  on  your  forbearance,  that  I  have  done  wrong  in  allow- 
ing you  to  wait." 

"That  you  could  not  very  well  help,"  he  said,  "since  I  chose 
to  wait.  And,  indeed,  I  greatly  preferred  waiting  as  long  as 
there  seemed  to  be  a  hope  there  was  something — anything,  in 
short — to  wait  for." 

"Ah!  but  that  is  precisely  what  I  have  never  been  sure 
about  myself — whether  there  really  was  anything  to  wait  for 
or  not." 

She  sat  straight  on  the  coping  of  the  parapet  again.  Her 
face  bore  the  most  engaging  expression.  There  was  a  certain 
softness  in  her  aspect  to-day.  She  was  less  of  a  youth,  a  comrade, 
so  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Quayle,  more  distinctly,  more  consciously  a 
woman.  But  now,  to  the  sound  of  trotting  horse -hoofs  was 
added  that  of  wheels.  With  a  clang  the  lodge-gates  were  thrown 
open. 

"  And  are  you  still  uncertain  ?  In  the  back  of  your  mind  is 
there  still  a  trifle  of  doubt? — If  so,  give  me  the  benefit  of  it,"  the 
young  man  pleaded,  half  laughingly,  half  brokenly. 

A  carriage  passed  under  the  grey  archway  of  the  red-brick 
and  freestone  lodges.  Rapidly  it  came  on  down  the  wide, 
smooth,  string-coloured  road — a  space  of  neatly  kept  turf  on 
either  side — under  the  shade  of  the  heavy  -  foliaged  elm  trees. 
Mr.  Quayle  glanced  at  it,  and  paused  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"I  call  you  to  witness  that  I  do  not  swear,  dear  Miss  St. 
Quentin,  though  men  have  been  known  to  become  blasphemous 
on  slighter  provocation  than  this,"  he  said.  "  However,  the 
rather  violently-approaching  interruption  will  be  soon  over,  I 
hope  and  believe ;  since  the  driving  is  that  of  Richard  Calmady 
of  Brockhurst  when  his  temper,  like  your  own,  being  some- 
what out  of  sorts,  he,  as  Jehu  the  son  of  Nimshi  of  old — my 
father's  morning  ministrations  to  the  maids  again  —  driveth 
furiously." 

Then,  with  an  air  of  humorous  resignation,  his  mouth  work- 
ing a  little,  his  long  neck  directed  forward  as  in  mildly  surprised 
inquiry,  he  stood  watching  the  approaching  mail-phaeton.  The 
wheels  of  it  made  a  hollow  rumbling,  the  tramp  of  the  horses  was 
impetuous,  the  pole-cliains  rattled,  as  it  swimg  out  on  to  the  liridge 
and  drew  up.  The  grooms  whijjp(;d  down  and  ran  round  to  the 
horses'  heads.  And  these  stood,  a  little  extended,  still  and 
rigid  as  of  bronze,  the  red  of  their  open  nostrils  and  the 
silver  mounting  of  their  harness  very  noticeable.     Lady  Calmady 


5S6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

called  to  Mr.  Quayle.  The  young  man  passed  round  at  the 
back  of  the  carriage,  and,  standing  on  the  far  side  of  the  road- 
way, talked  with  her. 

Honoria  St.  Quentin  remained  sitting  on  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge. 

A  singular  disinclination  to  risk  any  movement  had  come 
upon  her.  Not  the  present  situation  in  relation  to  Ludovic 
Quayle,  but  that  other  situation  of  the  but-half-disclosed  glory, 
the  new  and  exquisite  fulness  of  life,  oppressed  her,  penetrating 
her  whole  being  to  the  point  of  physical  weakness.  Question- 
ingly,  yet  with  entire  unself-consciousness,  she  looked  up  at 
Richard  Calmady.  And  he,  from  the  exalted  height  of  the  driving- 
seat,  looked  down  at  her.  A  dark,  cloth  rug  was  wrapped  tight 
round  him  from  the  waist  downward.  It  concealed  the  high 
driving-iron  against  which  his  feet  rested.  It  concealed  the  strap 
which  steadied  him  in  his  place.  His  person  appeared  finely 
proportioned.  His  head  and  face  were  surprisingly  handsome 
seen  thus  from  below — though  it  must  be  conceded  the  expres- 
sion of  the  latter  was  very  far  from  angelic. 

"  You  were  well  advised  to  stay  at  home,  Honoria,"  he  said. 
There  was  a  grating  tone  in  his  voice. 

"The  function  was  even  more  distinguished  for  dulness  than 
you  expected  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,  it  was  not  in  the  least  dull.  It  was 
actively  objectionable,  ingeniously  unpleasant.     Whereas  this  " — 

His  face  softened  a  little.  He  glanced  at  the  golden  water 
and  cornland,  the  lush  green  of  the  paddock,  the  rich,  massive 
colouring  of  woodland  and  sky.  Honoria  glanced  at  it  likewise, 
and,  so  doing,  rose  to  her  feet.  That  nostalgia  of  things  new 
and  glorious  ached  in  her.  Yet  the  pain  of  it  had  a  strange  and 
intimate  charm,  making  it  unlike  any  pain  she  had  ever  yet  felt. 
It  hurt  her  very  really,  it  made  her  weak,  yet  she  would  not  have 
had  it  cease. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  very  lovely,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  folded  leather  of  the  carriage  hood. 
Again  she  looked  up. 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  to  have  this — always — your  own,  to  come 
back  to,  Richard." 

She  spoke  sadly,  almost  unwillingly.  Dickie  did  not  answer, 
but  he  looked  down,  a  certain  violence  and  energy  very  evident 
in  him,  his  blue  eyes  hard,  and,  in  the  depth  of  them,  desolate 
as  the  sky  of  a  winter  night.  Calmly,  yet  in  a  way  desperately 
as  those  who  dare  inquiry  beyond  the  range  of  permitted  human 
speech,  the  young  man  and  woman  looked  at  one  another.     Lady 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  587 

Calmady's  sweet  voice,  meanwhile,  went  on  in  kindly  question. 
Ludovic  Quayle's  in  well-placed,  slightly  elaborate  answer.  The 
near  horse  threw  back  its  head  and  the  pole-chains  rattled 
smartly — Honoria's  lips  parted,  but  the  words,  if  words  indeed 
there  were,  died  in  her  throat.  She  raised  her  hands,  as  though 
putting  a  tangible  and  actual  presence  away  from  her.  She  did 
not  change  colour;  but  for  the  moment  her  delicate  features 
appeared  thickened,  as  by  a  rush  of  blood.  She  was  almost  plain. 
Yet  the  effect  was  inexpressibly  touching.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  received  some  mysterious  injury  which  she  was  dumb,  incap- 
able to  express.  She  let  her  hands  drop  at  her  sides,  turned 
away  and  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  bridge. 

Suddenly  Richard's  voice  came  to  her,  aggressive,  curt. 

"  Look  out,  Ludovic — stand  clear  of  the  wheel." 

The  horses  sprang  forward,  the  grooms  scrambled  up  at  the 
back,  and  the  carriage  swung  away  from  the  brightness  of  the 
open  to  the  gloom  of  the  avenue  and  up  the  long  hill  to  the  house. 

Mr.  Quayle  contemplated  it  for  a  minute  or  so.  Then,  with  an 
air  of  amused  toleration,  he  followed  Miss  St.  Quentin  across  the 
bridge. 

"  Poor,  dear  Dickie  Calmady,  poor,  dear  Dickie  ! "  he  said. 
"  He  attempts  the  impossible.  Fails  to  attain  it — as  a  matter  of 
course  ;  and,  meanwhile,  misses  the  possible — equally  as  a  matter 
of  course.  It  is  all  very  magnificent,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  also  not  a 
little  uncomfortable,  at  times,  for  other  people. — However  that 
trifle  of  criticism  is,  after  all,  beside  the  mark.  Now  that  the 
whirlwind  has  ceased.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  may  the  still,  small  voice 
of  my  own  affairs  presume  to  make  itself" — 

But  there  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  asked  in  quick  anxiety,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?     Pardon  me,  but  what  on  earth  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

For  Honoria  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  low,  carved  pillar 
terminating  the  masonry  of  the  parapet.  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  And,  incontestably,  she  shuddered  queerly  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Wait  half  a  second,"  she  said,  in  a  stifled  voice.  "  It's 
nothing — 1,'m  all  right." 

Slowly  she  raised  herself,  and  took  a  long  breath.  Then  she 
turned  to  her  faithful  lover,  showing  him  a  brave,  if  somewhat 
drawn  and  tired,  countenance. 

"  Ludovic,"  she  said  gently,  "  don't,  don't  please  let  us  talk 
any  more  about  all  that.  And  don't,  I  entreat  you,  wait  any 
longer.  If  there  was  any  uncertainly,  if  there  was  a  doubt  in  the 
back  of  my  mind,  it's  gone.     Forgive  me — this  must  sound  brutal 


588  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— but  there  is  no  more  doubt.  I  can't  marry  you.  I  am  sorry, 
horribly  sorry — for  you  have  been  as  charming  to  me  as  a  man 
could  be — but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  marry  you." 

Mr.  Quayle's  expression  retained  its  sweetness,  even  its  effect 
of  amusement,  though  his  lips  quivered,  and  his  eyelids  were  a 
little  red. 

"  I  do  not  come  up  to  the  requirements  of  the  grand  passion  ?  " 
he  said.     "Alas  !  poor  me" — 

"  No,  no,  it  isn't  that,"  Honoria  protested. 

"Ah,  then," — he  paused,  with  an  air  of  extraordinary  intelli- 
gence— "perhaps  someone  else  does?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply,  "I  don't  like  it,  but  it's  there,  and 
so  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it — someone  else  does." 

"  In  that  case  it  is  indeed  hopeless  !     I  give  it  up,"  he  cried. 

He  moved  aside  and  stood  gazing  at  the  rising  trout  in  the 
golden-brown  water.  Then  he  raised  his  head  sharply,  as  in 
obedience  to  a  thought  suddenly  occurring  to  him,  and  gazed  at 
Brockhurst  House.  The  brightness  of  the  western  sky  found 
reflection  in  its  many  windows.  A  noble  cheerfulness  seemed  to 
pervade  it,  as  it  crowned  the  hillside  amid  its  gardens  and  far- 
ranging  woods. 

"  By  all  that's  " —  Mr.  Quayle  began.  But  he  repressed  the 
exclamation,  and  his  expression  was  wholly  friendly  as  he  returned 
to  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. — "  I  am  glad,  honestly  glad,  you  have 
found  the  grand  passion,  though  the  object  of  it  can't,  in  the  first 
blush  of  the  affair,  be  altogether  persona  grata  to  myself.  But, 
to  show  that  really  I  have  a  little  root  of  magnanimity  in  me,  I 
am  quite  prepared  to  undertake  a  winter  at  Cairo,  plus  Evelyn 
Tobermory  and  minus  low  dresses,  if  that  will  enable  you  to  stay 
on  here — I  mean  in  England — of  course." 

He  pursed  up  his  beautiful  mouth,  he  carried  his  head  on 
one  side  with  the  liveliest  effect  of  provocation,  as  he  held  the 
young  lady's  hand  while  bidding  her  farewell. 

"  Out  of  my  heart  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  he 
said. 

"  I  shall  never  be  anything  but  Honoria  St.  Quentin,"  she 
answered  rather  hastily.  Then  she  softened,  forgiving  him. — 
"Oh!  why,"  she  said,  "why  will  you  make  me  quarrel  with  you 
just  now,  just  at  the  last? " 

"  Because — because  " —  Mr.  Quayle's  voice  broke,  though  his 
superior  smile  remained  to  him. — "  I  think  I  will  not  prolong  the 
interview,"  he  said.  "To  be  frank  with  you,  dear  Miss  St. 
Quentin,  I  am  about  as   miserable  as  is  consonant  with  com- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  589 

plete  sanity  and  excellent  health.  I  do  not  propose  to  blow  my 
brains  out,  but  I  think — yes,  thanks — you  appreciate  the  desira- 
bility of  that  course  of  action  too  ? — I  think  it  is  about  time  I 
went." 


CHAPTER  X 

CONCERXIXG    A    DAY    OF    HONEST    WARFARE    AND    A    SUNSET 
HARBINGER    NOT    OF    THE    NIGHT    BUT    OF    THE    DAWN 

THAT  episode,  upon  the  bridge  spanning  the  Long  Water, 
brought  Richard  would-be  saint,  Richard  pilgrim  along 
the  great  white  road  which  leads  onward  to  Perfection,  into  lively 
collision  with  Richard  the  natural  man,  not  to  mention  Richard 
the  "wild  bull  in  a  net."  These  opposing  forces  engaged  battle, 
with  the  consequence  that  the  carriage  horses  took  the  hill  at  a 
rather  breakneck  pace.  Not  that  Dickie  touched  them,  but  that, 
he  being  vibrant,  they  felt  his  mood  down  the  length  of  the  reins 
and  responded  to  it. 

"  Ludovic  need  hardly  have  been  in  such  a  prodigious  hurry," 
he  broke  out.  "  He  might  have  allowed  one  a  few  days'  grace. 
It  was  a  defect  of  taste  to  come  over  immediately ;  but  then  all 
that  family's  taste  is  liable  to  lapses." 

Promptly  he  repented,  ashamed  both  of  his  anger  and  such 
self-revealing  expression  of  it. 

"  I  daresay  it's  all  for  the  best  though.  Better  a  thing  should 
be  nipped  in  the  bud  than  in  the  blossom.  And  this  puts  it  all 
on  a  right  footing.  One  might  easily  drift  into  depending  too 
much  upon  Honoria.  I  own  I  was  dangerously  near  doing  that 
this  spring.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so  now,  mother,  because 
this,  you  see,  disposes  finally  of  the  matter." 

His  voice  contended  oddly  with  the  noise  of  the  wheels,  rattle 
of  the  pole-chains,  pounding  of  the  hoofs  of  the  pulling  horses. 
The  sentences  came  to  Lady  Calmady's  ears  disjointed,  diffi- 
cult to  follow  and  interpret.  Therefore  she  answered  slightly  at 
random. 

"  My  dearest,  I  could  have  kept  her  longer  in  the  spring  if  I 
had  only  known,"  she  said,  a  disfiuiuting  suspicion  of  lost  oi)|)or- 
tunity  assailing  her.  "But,  from  certain  things  which  you  said,  I 
thought  you  preferred  our  being  alone." 

"  So  I  did.  I  wanted  her  to  go  because  I  wanted  her  to  stay. 
Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  see,"  Katherine  replied.     And  at  that  moment, 


590  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

it  must  be  conceded,  her  sentiments  were  not  conspicuously 
pacific  towards  her  devoted  adherent,  Mr.  Quayle. 

"  We've  a  good  many  interests  in  common,"  Dickie  went  on, 
"and  there  seemed  a  chance  of  one's  settHng  down  into  a  rather 
charming  friendship  with  her.  It  was  a  beguiling  prospect.  And, 
for  that  very  reason,  it  was  best  she  should  depart.  The  prospect, 
in  all  its  beguilingness,  renewed  itself  to-day  after  luncheon." — 
He  paused,  handling  the  plunging  horses. — "And  so,  after  all, 
Ludovic  shall  be  reckoned  welcome;  for,  as  I  say,  I  might  have 
come  to  depend  on  her.  And  one's  a  fool — I  ought  to  have  learnt 
that  salutary  lesson  by  this  time — a  rank  fool,  to  depend  on  any- 
body or  anything,  save  oneself,  simply  and  solely  oneself" — his  tone 
softened — "  and  upon  you,  most  dear  and  long-suffering  mother. 
— Therefore  the  dream  of  friendship  goes  overboard  along  with  all 
the  rest  of  one's  little  illusions.  And  every  illusion  one  rids  one- 
self of  is  so  much  to  the  good.  It  lightens  the  ship.  It  lessens 
the  chances  of  foundering.     Clearly  it  is  so  much  pure  gain." 

That  evening,  pleading — unexampled  occurrence  in  her  case — 
a  headache  as  excuse.  Miss  St.  Quentin  did  not  put  in  an 
appearance  at  dinner.  Nor  did  Richard  put  in  an  appearance 
at  breakfast  next  morning.  At  an  early  hour  he  had  received 
a  communication  earnestly  requesting  his  presence  at  the 
Westchurch  Infirmary.  His  mission  promised  to  be  a  melan- 
choly one,  yet  he  was  not  sorry  for  the  demand  made  by  it  upon 
his  time  and  thought.  For,  notwithstanding  the  philosophic 
tone  he  had  adopted  with  Lady  Calmady  in  speaking  of  that 
friendship  which,  if  not  nipped  in  the  bud,  might  have  reached 
perils  of  too  luxuriant  blossoming,  the  would-be  saint  and  the 
natural  man,  the  pilgrim  on  the  highroad  to  Perfection  and  that 
very  inconvenient  animal  "the  wild  bull  in  a  net,"  kept  up 
warfare  within  Richard  Calmady.  They  were  hard  at  it  even 
yet,  when,  in  the  fair  freshness  of  the  September  morning — the 
grasses  and  hedge-fruit,  the  wild  flowers,  and  low-growing,  tangled 
coppices  by  the  roadside,  still  heavy  with  dew — he  drove  over 
to  Westchurch.  The  day  was  bright,  with  flying  cloud  and  a 
westerly  breeze.  The  dust  was  laid,  and  the  atmosphere,  cleared 
by  the  storm  of  the  preceding  afternoon,  had  a  smack  of  autumn 
in  it.  It  was  one  of  those  delicious,  yet  distracting,  days  when 
the  sea  calls,  and  when  whosoever  loves  sea-faring  grows  restless, 
must  seek  movement,  seek  the  open,  strain  his  eyes  towards  the 
margin  of  the  land — be  the  coast-line  never  so  far  distant — tor- 
mented by  desire  for  sight  of  the  blue  water,  and  the  strong  and 
naked  joys  of  the  mighty  ridge  and  furrow  where  go  the  gallant 
ships. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  591 

With  the  upspringing  of  the  wind  at  dawn,  that  calling  of  the 
sea  had  made  itself  heard  to  Richard.  At  first  it  suggested  only 
the  practical  temptation  of  putting  the  Reprieve  into  commission, 
and  engaging  Lady  Calmady  to  go  forth  with  him  on  a  three  or 
four  months'  cruise.  But  that,  as  he  speedily  convinced  himself, 
was  but  a  pitifully  cheap  expedient,  a  shirking  of  voluntarily 
assumed  responsibility,  a  childish  cheating  of  discontent,  rather 
than  an  honestly  attempted  cure  of  it.  If  cure  was  to  be  achieved, 
the  canker  must  be  excised,  boldly  cut  out,  not  overlaid  merely 
by  some  trifle  of  partially  concealing  plaster.  For  he  knew  well 
enough,  as  all  sea-lovers  know — and,  as  he  drove  through  the 
dappled  sunlight  and  shadow,  frankly  admitted — that  though  the 
sea  itself  very  actually  and  really  called,  yet  its  calling  was  the 
voice  and  symbol  of  much  over  and  above  itself.  For  in  it 
speaks  the  eternal  necessity  of  going  forward,  that  hunger  and 
thirst  for  the  absolute  and  ultimate  which  drives  every  human 
creature  whose  heart  and  soul  and  intellect  are  truly  animate. 
And  to  him,  just  now,  it  spoke  more  particularly  of  the  natural 
instincts  of  his  manhood — of  ambition,  of  passion,  of  headlong 
desire  of  sensation,  excitement,  adventure,  of  just  all  that,  in 
fact,  which  he  had  forsworn,  had  agreed  with  himself  to  cast 
aside  and  forget.  And,  thinking  of  this,  suspicion  assailed  him 
that  forswearing  had  been  slightly  insincere  and  perfunctory. 
He  accused  himself  of  nourishing  the  belief  that  giving  he  would 
also  receive, — and  that  in  kind, — while  that  any  sacrifice  which  he 
offered  would  be  returned  to  him  doubled  in  value.  Casting  his 
bread  upon  the  waters,  he  accused  himself  of  having  expected  to 
find  it,  not  "after  many  days,"  but  immediately — a  full  baker's 
dozen  ready  to  hand  in  his  pocket.  His  motives  had  not  been 
wholly  pure.  Actually,  though  not  at  the  time  consciously,  he 
had  essayed  to  strike  a  bargain  with  the  Almighty. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  top  of  the  long,  straight  hill  leading 
down  into  Westchurch,  Richard  arrived  at  these  unflatttring 
conclusions.  On  either  side  the  road,  upon  the  yellow  surface  of 
which  the  sunlight  played  through  the  tossing  leaves  of  the  plane 
trees,  were  villas  of  very  varied  and  hybrid  styles  of  architecture. 
They  were,  for  the  most  part,  smothered  in  creepers,  and  set  in 
gardens  gay  with  blossom.  Below  lay  the  sprawling,  red-brick 
town,  blotted  with  purple  shadow.  A  black  canal  meandered 
through  the  heart  of  it,  crossed  by  mean,  humpbacked  bridges. 
The  huge,  amorf)hous  buildings  of  its  railway  station — engine 
sheds,  goofjs  warehouses,  trailing  of  swiftly  dispersed  white 
smoke — the  grime  and  clamour  of  all  that,  its  factory  buildings 
and  tall  chimneys,  were  very  evident,  as  were  the  pale  towers  of 


592  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

its  churches.     And  beyond  the  ugly,  pushing,  industrial  common- 
place of  it,  striking  a  very  different  note,  the  blue  ribbon  of  the 
still  youthful  Thames,  backed  by  high-lying  chalk-lands  fringed 
with  hanging  woods,  traversed  a  stretch  of  flat,  green  meadows. 
Richard's  eyes  rested  upon  the  scene  absently,  since  thought  just 
now  had  more  empire  over  him  than  any  outward  seeing.    For  he 
perceived  that  he  must  cleanse  himself  yet  further  of  self-seeking. 
Those  words,  "if  thou  wilt  be  perfect  sell  that  thou  hast  and 
give  to  the  poor,  and  follow  thou  me,"  have  not  a  material  and 
objective   significance   merely.     They  deal  with   each   personal 
desire,  even  the  apparently  most  legitimate ;  with  each  indulgence 
of  personal  feeling,  even   the  apparently  most  innocent;  with 
the  inward  attitude  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  mind  even  more 
closely  than  with  outward  action  and  conduct.     And  so  Richard 
reached  the  conclusion  that  he  must  strip  himself  yet  nearer  to 
the  bone.     He  must  digest  the  harsh  truth  that  virtue  is  its  own 
reward  in  the  sense  that  it  is  its  only  reward,  and  must  look  for 
nothing  beyond  that.     He  had  grown  slack  of  late,  seduced  by 
visions   of  pleasant   things    permitted   most   men   but  to   him 
forbidden;   and  wearied,    too,    by  the  length   of  the  way  and 
inevitable   monotony  of  it   now   first  heat  of  enthusiasm  had 
evaporated.     Well  —  it   was   all   very   simple.      He   must    just 
re-dedicate  himself.     And  in  this  stern  and  chastened  frame  of 
mind  he  drove  through  the  bustle  of  the  country  town — Saturday, 
market  day,  its  streets  unusually  alive — nodding  to  an  acquaint- 
ance  here   and  there   in   passing,  two  or  three  of  his  tenant 
farmers,    Mr.    Cathcart    of    Newlands   in   on   county   business, 
Goodall    the    octogenarian    miller    from    Parson's    Holt,    and 
Lemuel  Image  the  brewer,  bursting  out  of  an  obviously  new  suit 
of  very  showy  tweeds.     Then,  at  the  main  door  of  the  Infirmary, 
helped  by  the  stalwart,  hospital  porter,  he  got  down  from  the 
dog-cart ;  and  subsequently — raked  by  curious  eyes,  saluted  by 
hardly  repressed  tittering  from  the  out-patients  waiting  en  gueue 
for  admission  to  the  dispensary — he  made  his  slow  way  along  the 
bare,  vaultlike,  stone  passage  to  the  accident  ward,  in  the  far 
corner  of  which  a  bed  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  by  an  arrange- 
ment of  screens  and  of  curtains. 

And  it  was  in  the  same  chastened  frame  of  mind  that,  some 
four  or  five  hours  later,  Richard  entered  the  dining-room  at 
Brockhurst.  The  two  ladies  had  nearly  finished  luncheon  and 
were  about  to  rise  from  the  table.  Lady  Calmady  greeted  him 
very  gladly  ;  but  abstained  from  inquiry  as  to  his  doings  or  from 
comment  on  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  since  experience  had  long 
ago  taught  her  that  of  all  known  animals  man  is  the  one  of  whom 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  593 

it  is  least  profitable  for  woman  to  ask  questions,  Dickie  was  here 
at  home,  alive,  intact,  her  eyes  were  rejoiced  by  the  sight  of  him, 
that  was  sufficient.  If  he  had  anything  to  tell  her,  no  doubt  he 
would  tell  it  later.  For  the  rest,  she  had  something  to  tell  him  ; 
but  that  too  must  wait  until  time  and  circumstance  were  pro- 
pitious, since  the  conveying  of  it  involved  delicate  diplomacies. 
It  must  be  handled  lightly.  For  the  Hfe  of  her  she  must 
avoid  all  appearance  of  eagerness,  all  appearance  of  attaching 
serious  importance  to  the  communication.  Lady  Calmady  had 
learned,  this  morning,  that  Honoria  St.  Quentin  did  not  propose 
to  marry  Ludovic  Quayle,  The  young  lady,  whose  charming 
nonchalance  was  curiously  in  eclipse  to-day,  had  given  her  to 
understand  so  much  ;  but  very  briefly,  the  subject  evidently  being 
rather  painful  to  her.  She  was  silent  and  a  little  distrait ;  but 
she  was  also  very  gentle,  displaying  a  disposition  to  follow 
Katherine  about  wherever  she  went,  and  a  pretty  zeal  in  doing 
small  odd  jobs  for  her.  Katherine  was  touched  and  tenderly 
amused  by  her  manner,  which  was  as  that  of  a  charming  child 
coveting  assurance  that  it  need  not  be  ashamed  of  itself,  and  that 
it  has  not  really  done  anything  naughty  !  But  Katherine  sighed  too, 
watching  this  strong,  graceful,  capable  creature ;  for,  if  things 
had  been  otherwise  with  Dickie,  how  thankfully  she  would  have 
given  the  keeping  of  his  future  into  this  woman's  hands.  She 
had  ceased  to  be  jealous  even  of  her  son's  love.  Gladly, 
gratefully,  would  she  have  shared  that  love,  accepting  the  second 
place,  if  only  —  but  all  that  was  beyond  possibility  of  hope. 
Still  the  friendship  of  which  he  had  spoken  somewhat  bitterly 
yesterday — poor  darling — remained,  Ludovic  Quayle's  preten- 
sions— she  felt  very  pitifully  towards  that  accomplished  gentleman, 
all  his  good  qualities  had  started  into  high  relief — but,  his 
pretensions  no  longer  barring  the  way  to  that  friendship,  she 
pledged  herself  to  work  for  the  promotion  of  it.  Dickie  was 
too  severe  in  self-repression,  was  over-strained  in  stoicism  ;  and, 
ignoring  the  fact  that  in  his  fixity  of  purpose,  his  exaggerations 
of  self  abnegation,  he  proved  himself  very  much  her  own  son,  she 
determined  secretly,  cautiously,  lovingly,  to  combat  all  that. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  warm  satisfaction  that,  as  Honoria  was 
about  to  rise  from  the  table,  she  observed  Richard  emerge,  in  a 
degree,  from  his  abstraction,  and  heard  him  say  : — 

"  You  told  me  you'd  like  to  ride  over  to  Farley  this  afternoon 
and  see  the  home  for  my  crippled  people.  Are  you  too  tired 
after  your  headache,  or  do  you  still  care  to  go  ?  " 

"Oh  !  I'm  not  tired,  thanks,"  Honoria  answered.  Then  she 
hesitated  ;   and  Richard,  lookinu  at  her,  was  aware,  as  on  the 

38 


594  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

bridge  yesterday,  of  a  sudden  and  singular  thickening  of  her 
features,  which,  while  marring  her  beauty,  rendered  her  aspect 
strangely  pathetic,  as  of  one  who  sustains  some  mysterious  hurt. 
And  to  him  it  seemed,  for  the  moment,  as  though  both  that 
hurt  and  the  infliction  of  it  bore  subtle  relation  to  himself, 
ComrAon  sense  discredited  the  notion  as  unpermissibly  fantastic, 
still  it  influenced  and  softened  his  manner. 

"But  you  know  you  are  looking  frightfully  done  up  yourself, 
Richard,"  she  went  on,  with  a  charming  air  of  half-reluctant 
protest.  "Isn't  he,  Cousin  Katherine?  Are  you  sure  you  want 
to  ride  this  afternoon?    Please  don't  go  out  just  on  my  account." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  right  enough,"  he  answered.  "  I'd  infinitely  rather 
go  out." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  reached  down  for  his  crutches. 
Still  the  fantastic  notion  that,  all  unwittingly,  he  had  been  guilty 
of  doing  Honoria  some  strange  injury,  clung  to  him.  He 
was  sensible  of  the  desire  to  offer  reparation.  This  made  him 
more  communicative  than  he  would  otherwise  have  been. 

"I  saw  a  man  die  this  morning — that's  all,"  he  said.  "I 
know  it's  stupid ;  but  one  can't  help  it,  it  knocks  one  about 
a  bit.  You  see  he  didn't  want  to  die,  poor  fellow,  though,  God 
knows,  he'd  little  enough  to  live  for — or  to  live  with,  for  that 
matter." 

"  Your  factory  hand  ?  "  Honoria  asked. 

Richard  slipped  out  of  his  chair  and  stood  upright. 

"Yes,  my  factory  hand,"  he  answered.  "Dear,  old  Knott 
was  fearfully  savage  about  it.  He  was  so  tremendously  keen  on 
the  case,  and  made  sure  of  pulling  him  through.  But  the  poor 
boy  had  been  sliced  up  a  little  too  thoroughly."  —  Richard 
paused,  smiling  at  Honoria.  "  So  all  one  could  do  was  to  go 
with  him  just  as  far  as  is  permitted  out  into  the  great  silence, 
and  then — then  come  home  to  luncheon.  The  home  at  Farley 
loses  its  point,  rather,  now  he  is  dead.  Still  there  are  others, 
plenty  of  others,  enough  to  satisfy  even  Knott's  greed  of  riveting 
broken  human  crockery. — Oh  yes  !  I  shall  enjoy  riding  over, 
if  you  are  still  good  to  come.  Four  o'clock — that'll  suit  you  ? 
I'll  order  the  horses." 

And  so,  in  due  course,  the  two  rode  forth  together  into  the 
brightness  of  the  September  afternoon.  The  sea  still  called ; 
but  Dickie's  ears  were  deaf  to  all  dangerous  allurements  and 
excitations  resident  in  that  calling.  It  had  to  him,  just  now, 
only  the  pensive  charm  of  a  far-away  melody,  which,  though  no 
doubt  of  great  and  immediate  import  to  others,  had  ceased  to 
be  any  concern  of  his.      Beside  the  deathbed  in  the  hospital 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  595 

ward  he  had  renewed  his  vows,  and  the  efficacy  of  that  renewal 
was  very  present  with  him.  It  made  for  repose.  It  laid  the 
evil  spirit  of  defiance,  of  self-consciousness,  of  humiliation,  so 
often  obtaining  in  his  intercourse  with  women — a  spirit  begotten 
by  the  perpetual  prick  of  his  deformity,  and  in  part,  too,  by  his 
determined  adoption  of  the  ascetic  attitude  in  regard  to  the 
affections.  He  was  spent  by  the  emotions  of  the  morning,  but 
that  also  made  for  repose.  For  the  time  being  devils  were 
cast  out.  He  was  tranquil,  yet  exalted.  His  eyes  had  a 
smile  in  them,  as  though  they  looked  beyond  the  limit  of  things 
transitory  and  material  into  the  regions  of  the  Pure  Idea,  where 
the  eternal  values  are  disclosed  and  Peace  has  her  dwelling. 
And,  precisely  because  of  all  this,  he  could  take  Honoria's  presence 
lightly,  be  chivalrously  solicitous  of  her  entertainment  and  well- 
being,  and  talk  to  her  with  greater  freedom  than  ever  heretofore. 
He  ceased  to  be  on  his  guard  with  her  because,  in  good  truth,  it 
seemed  to  him  there  ceased  to  be  anything  to  guard  against. 
For  the  time  being,  at  all  events,  he  had  got  to  the  other  side 
of  all  that ;  and  so  she  and  his  relation  to  her,  had  become  part 
of  that  charming  but  far-away  melody  which  was  no  concern 
of  his — though  mighty  great  and  altogether  worthy  concern  of 
others,  of  Ludovic  Quayle,  for  example. — And  in  his  present 
tranquil  humour  he  could  listen  to  the  sweetness  of  that  melody 
ungrudgingly.  It  was  pleasant.  He  could  enjoy  it  without 
envy,  though  it  was  none  of  his. 

But  to  Honoria's  seeing  it  must  be  owned,  matters  shaped 
themselves  very  differently.  For  the  usually  unperturbed,  the 
chaste  and  fearless  soul  of  her  endured  violent  assaults,  violent 
commotions,  the  origin  of  which  she  but  partially  understood. 
And  these  Richard's  frankness,  his  courteous,  in  some  sort 
brotherly,  good-fellowship,  served  to  intensify  rather  than  allay. 
The  feeling  of  the  noble  horse  under  her,  the  cool,  westerly  wind 
in  her  face,  went  to  brace  her  nerves,  and  restore  the  self- 
possession,  courage  of  judgment,  and  clearness  of  thought,  which 
had  been  lacking  to  her  during  the  past  twenty-four  hours. 
Nevertheless  she  rode  as  through  a  but-ncwly-discovcred  country, 
familiar  objects  displaying  alien  aspects,  familiar  phases 
assuming  unlooked-for  significance,  a  something  challenging  and 
fateful  meeting  her  everywhere.  The  whole  future  seemed  to 
hang  in  the  balance  :  and  she  waited,  dreading  yet  longing,  to 
see  the  scale  turn. 

This  afternoon  the  harvesters  were  carrying  the  corn.  Red- 
painted  waggons,  drawn  by  sleek,  heavy-made,  cart-horses,  crawled 
slowly  across  the  blond  stubble.     It  was  pretty  to  see  the  rusty- 


596  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

gold  sheaves  tossed  up  from  the  shining  prongs  of  the  pitch- 
forks on  to  the  mountainous  load.  Honoria  and  Richard 
watched  this,  a  little  minute,  from  the  grass-ride  bordering  the 
roadway  beneath  the  elms.  Next  came  the  high-lying  moorland, 
beyond  the  lodges.  The  fine-leaved  heath  was  thick  with  red- 
purple  blossom.  Patches  of  dusky  heather  were  frosted  with 
dainty  pink.  Spikes  of  genista  and  beds  of  needle-furze  showed 
sharply  yellow,  vividly  green,  and  a  fringe  of  blue  campanula, 
with  frail,  quivering  bells,  outlined  all  open  spaces.  The  face 
of  the  land  had  been  washed  by  the  rain.  It  shone  with  an 
inimitable  cleanliness,  as  though  consciously  happy  in  relief 
from  all  soil  of  dust.  And  it  was  here,  the  open  country 
stretching  afar  on  all  sides,  that  Dickie  began  talking,  not,  as 
at  first,  in  desultory  fashion,  but  of  matters  nearly  pertaining  and 
closely  interesting  to  himself. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  the  horses  quietly, 
neck  to  neck,  along  the  moorland  road,  "  I  don't  go  in  for 
system-making  or  for  reforms  on  any  big  scale.  That  doesn't 
come  within  my  province.  I  must  leave  that  to  politicians  and 
to  men  who  are  in  the  push  of  the  world.  I  admire  it.  I  rejoice 
in  the  hot-headed,  narrow-brained,  whole-hearted  agitator,  who 
believes  that  his  system  adopted,  his  reform  carried  through,  the 
^vhole  show  will  instantly  be  put  straight.  Such  faith  is  very 
touching." 

"And  the  reformer  has  sometimes  done  some  little  good 
after  all,"  Honoria  commented. 

"Of  course  he  has,"  Dickie  agreed.  "Only  as  a  rule,  poor 
dear,  he  can't  be  contented  but  that  his  special  reform  should 
be  the  final  one,  that  his  system  should  be  the  universal  panacea. 
And  in  point  of  fact  no  reform  is  final  this  side  of  death,  and 
no  panacea  is  universal,  save  that  which  the  Maker  of  the 
Universe  chooses  to  work  out — is  working  out  now,  if  we  could 
any  way  grasp  it — through  the  slow  course  of  unnumbered  ages. 
Let  the  reformer  do  all  he  can,  but  don't  let  him  turn  sour 
because  his  pet  reform,  his  pet  system,  sinks  away  and  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  great  sea  of  things — sea  of  human  progress, 
if  you  like.  Every  system  is  bound  to  prove  too  small,  every 
reform  ludicrously  inadequate — be  it  never  so  radical — because 
material  conditions  are  perpetually  changing,  while  man  in  his 
mental,  emotional  and  physical  aspects  remains  always  precisely 
the  same." 

They  passed  from  the  breezy  upland  into  the  high-banked 
lane  which,  leading  downwards,  joins  the  great  London  and 
Portsmouth  Road  just  beyond  Farley  Row. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  597 


(1 


And — and  that  is  where  I  come  in  ! "  Richard  said,  turning 
a  little  in  the  saddle  and  smiling  sweet-temperedly,  yet  with  a 
suggestion  of  self-mockery,  upon  his  companion.  "Just  because, 
in  essential  respects,  mankind  remains — notwithstanding  modi- 
fications of  his  environment — substantially  the  same,  from  the 
era  of  the  Pentateuch  to  the  era  of  the  Rougon  -  Macquarts, 
there  must  always  be  a  lot  of  wreckage,  of  waste,  and  refuse 
humanity.  The  inauguration  of  each  new  system,  each  new 
reform — religious,  political,  educational,  economic — practically 
they're  all  in  the  same  boat — let  alone  the  inevitable  breakdown 
or  petering  out  of  each,  necessarily  produces  a  fresh  crop  of  such 
waste  and  refuse  material.  And  in  that  a  man  like  myself,  who 
does  not  aspire  to  cure  or  to  construct,  but  merely  to  alleviate 
and  to  pick  up  the  pieces,  finds  his  chance." 

And  Honoria  listened,  musing — approved,  enthusiasm  gaining 
her ;  yet  protested,  since,  even  while  she  admired,  she  rebelled  a 
little  on  his  account,  and  for  his  sake. 

"But  it  is  rather  a  hard  life,  surely,  Richard,"  she  said, 
"which  you  propose  to  yourself?  Always  the  pieces,  the  thing 
broken  and  spoiled,  never  the  thing  in  its  beauty,  full  of  promise, 
and  whole ! " 

"It  is  less  hard  for  me  than  for  most,"  he  answered,  "or 
should  be  so.  After  all,  I  am  to  the  manner  born^ — a  bit  of 
human  wreckage  myself,  with  which,  but  for  the  accident  of 
wealth,  things  would  have  gone  pretty  badly.  I  used  to  be 
horribly  scared  sometimes,  as  a  small  boy,  thinking  to  what  uses  I 
might  be  put  if  the  kindly,  golden  rampart  ever  gave." 

He  became  silent.  As  for  Honoria,  she  had  neither  courage 
to  look  at  or  to  answer  him  just  then. 

"  And  you  see,  I'm  absolutely  free,"  he  added  presently. — "  I 
am  alone,  always  shall  be  so.  If  the  life  is  hard,  I  ask  no  one  to 
share  it,  so  I  may  make  it  what  I  like." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no — you  misunderstand,  Richard  !  I  didn't  mean 
that,"  Honoria  cried  quickly,  half  under  her  breath. 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  smiling. 

"  Didn't  you  ?     All  the  kinder  of  you,"  he  said. 

Thereupon  regret,  almost  intolerable  in  its  poignancy,  in- 
vaded Miss  St.  Quentin  that  she  would  have  to  go  away,  to  go 
back  to  the  world  and  all  the  foolish  obtaining  fashions  of  it ; 
that  she  should  have  to  take  that  pre-eminently  well-cushioned 
and  luxurious  winter's  journey  to  Cairo.  She  longed  inexpres- 
sibly to  remain  here,  to  assist  in  these  experiments  made  in  the 
name  of  Holy  Charity.  She  longed  inexpressibly  to —  And 
there  Honoria  jjaused,  even  in  thought.     Yet  she  glanced  at  the 


59S  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

young  man  riding  beside  her — at  the  handsome  profile,  still 
and  set  in  outline,  the  suggestion,  it  was  no  more,  of  a  scar 
running  downward  across  the  left  cheek ;  at  the  well-made,  up- 
right, broad-shouldered  figure,  and  then  at  the  saddle,  peaked, 
back  and  front,  with  oddly-shaped  appendages  to  it  resembling 
old-fashioned  holsters. — And,  as  yesterday  upon  the  bridge,  the 
ache  of  a  pain  at  once  sweet  and  terrible  laid  hold  of  her,  making 
her  queerly  faint.  The  single  street,  sun-covered,  sleepy,  empty 
save  for  a  brewer's  dray  and  tax-cart  or  two  standing  before  the 
solid  Georgian  portals  of  the  White  Lion  Inn,  for  a  straggling  tail 
of  children  bearing  home  small  shoppings  and  jugs  of  supper 
beer,  for  a  flock  of  grey  geese  proceeding  with  aggressively  self- 
righteous  demeanour  along  the  very  middle  of  the  roadway  and 
lowering  long  necks  to  hiss  defiance  at  the  passer-by,  and  for  an 
old  black  retriever  dozing  peacefully  beneath  one  of  the  rustling 
sycamores  in  front  of  Josiah  Appleyard,  the  saddler's  shop — all 
these,  as  she  looked  at  them,  became  uncertain  in  outline,  and 
reeled  before  Honoria's  eyes.  For  the  moment  she  experienced 
a  difficulty  in  keeping  steady  in  the  saddle.  But  the  horses  still 
walked  quietly,  neck  to  neck,  their  shadows,  and  those  of  their 
riders  growing  longer,  narrower,  outstretched  before  them  as  the 
sun  declined  in  the  west.  All  the  future  hung  in  the  balance ; 
but  the  scale  had  not  turned  as  yet. 

Then  Richard's  voice  took  up  its  parable  again. 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  rather  fraudulently  comfortable  doctrine,  yet 
it  does  strike  one  that  the  justification  of  disaster,  in  all  its  many 
forms,  is  the  opportunity  it  affords  the  individualist.  He  may  use 
t  for  sfelf-aggrandisement,  or  for  self-devotion — though  I  rather 
shy  at  so  showy  a  word  as  that  last.  However,  the  use  he  makes 
of  it  isn't  the  point.  What  is  the  point,  to  my  mind  at  least,  is 
this— though  it  doesn't  sound  magnificent,  it  hardly  indeed 
sounds  cleanly — that  whatever  trade  fails,  whatever  profession, 
thanks  to  the  advance  of  civilisation,  becom.es  obsolete,  that  of 
the  man  with  the  dust-cart,  of  the  scavenger,  of  the  sweeper, 
won't." 

Once  more  Richard  smiled  upon  his  companion  charmingly, 
yet  with  something  of  self-mockery. 

"And  so,  you  see,  having  knocked  about  enough  to  grow 
careless  of  niceties  of  prejudice,  and  to  acquire  an  immense  admira- 
tion for  any  vocation  which  promises  permanence,  I  join  hands 
with  the  dustman.  In  the  light  of  science,  and  in  that  of  religion 
alike,  nothing  really  is  common  or  unclean.  And  then— then,  if 
you  are  beyond  the  pale  in  any  case,  as  some  of  us  are,  it's  a  little 
too  transparently  cheap  to  be  afraid  of  soiling  "—  He  broke  off.— 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  599 

"  Away  there  to  the  left,  Honoria,"  he  said.  "  You  see  the  house  ? 
The  yellow-washed  one,  with  the  gables  and  tiled  roofs — there, 
back  on  the  slope. — Bagshaw,  the  Bond  Street  poulterer,  had  it 
for  years.  His  lease  ran  out  in  the  spring,  and  happily  he  didn't 
care  to  renew.  Had  bought  himself  an  up-to-date,  villa  residence 
somewhere  in  the  suburbs — Chislehurst,  I  believe.  So  I  took 
the  place  over.  It  will  do  for  a  beginning — the  small  end  of  the 
wedge  of  my  scavenger's  business.  There  are  over  five  acres  of 
garden  and  orchard,  and  plenty  of  rooms  on  each  floor,  which 
gives  good  range  for  the  disabled  to  move  about  in — and  the 
stairs,  only  one  flight,  are  easy.  One  has  to  think  of  these  details. 
And — well,  the  house  commands  a  magnificent  view  of  Gierke's 
Green,  and  the  geese  on  it,  than  which  nothing  clearly  can  be 
more  exciting ! " 

The  groom  rode  forward  and  opened  the  gate.  Before  the 
square,  outstanding  porch  Richard  drew  up. 

"  I  should  like  to  come  in  with  you,"  he  said.  "  But  you  see 
it's  rather  a  business  getting  off  one's  horse,  and  I  can't  very  well 
manage  the  stairs.  So  I'll  wait  about  till  you  are  ready.  Don't 
hurry.  I  want  you  to  see  all  the  arrangements,  if  it  doesn't  bore 
you,  and  make  suggestions.  The  carpenters  are  there,  doing 
overtime.     They'll  let  you  through  if  the  caretaker's  out." 

Thus  admonished.  Miss  St.  Quentin  dismounted  and  made 
her  way  into  the  house.  A  broad  passage  led  straight  through  it. 
The  open  door  at  the  farther  end  disclosed  a  vista  of  box-edged 
path  and  flower-borders  where,  in  gay  ranks,  stood  tall  sun- 
flowers, holly-hocks,  Michaelmas-daisies,  and  such  like.  Beyond 
was  orchard,  the  round-headed  apple-trees,  bright  with  polished 
fruit,  rising  from  a  carpet  of  grass.  The  rooms,  to  left  and  right 
of  the  passage,  were  pleasantly  sun-warmed  and  mellow  of  aspect, 
the  ceilings  of  them  crossed  by  massive  beams.  Honoria  visited 
them,  dutifully  observant.  She  encountered  the  head  carpenter, 
an  acquaintance  and  ally  during  those  four  years  so  great  part 
of  which  she  had  spent  at  Brockhurst.  She  talked  with  him, 
making  inquiries  concerning  wife,  children,  and  trade,  incident  to 
such  a  meeting,  her  face  very  serious  all  the  while,  the  skirt  of 
her  habit  gathered  up  in  one  hand,  her  gait  a  trifle  stiff  and 
measured  owing  to  her  high  riding-boots.  But,  though  she  ac- 
quitted htTself  in  all  kindliness  of  conversation,  though  she 
conscientiously  inspected  each  sej)arate  apartment,  and  noted  the 
cheerful  comeliness  of  orchard  and  garden,  it  must  be  owned 
all  these  remained  singularly  distant  from  her  actual  emotion 
;ind  thought.  She  was  glad  to  be  alone.  She  was  glad  to  be 
away  from  Richard  Calniady,  though  zealously  obedient  to  his 


Coo  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

wishes  in  respect  of  this  inspection.  For  his  presence  became 
increasingly  oppressive  from  the  intensity  of  feeling  it  produced 
in  her,  and  which  she  was,  at  present,  powerless  to  direct  toward 
any  reasonable  and  definite  end.  This  rendered  her  tongue-tied, 
and,  as  she  fancied,  stupid.  Her  unreadiness  mortified  her. 
She,  usually  indifferent  enough  to  the  impression  she  produced 
on  others,  was  sensible  of  a  keen  desire  to  appear  at  her  best.  She 
did  in  fact,  so  she  believed,  appear  at  her  worst,  slow  of  under- 
standing and  of  sympathy. — But  then  all  the  future  hung  in  the 
balance.  The  scale  delayed  to  turn.  And  the  strain  of  waiting 
became  agitating  to  the  point  of  distress. 

At  last  the  course  of  her  so-dutiful  survey  brought  her  to  a 
quaint,  little  chamber,  situated  immediately  over  the  square,  out- 
standing porch.  It  was  lighted  by  a  single,  hooded  window 
placed  in  the  centre  of  the  front  wall.  It  was  evidently  designed 
for  a  linen  room,  and  was  in  process  of  being  fitted  with  shelves 
and  cupboards  of  white  pine.  The  floor  was  deep  in  shavings, 
long,  curly,  wafer-coloured,  semi-transparent.  They  rustled  like 
fallen  leaves  when  Honoria  stepped  among  them.  The  air  was 
filled  with  the  odour  of  them,  dry  and  resinous  as  that  of  the  fir 
forest.  Ever  after  that  odour  affected  Honoria  with  a  sense  of 
half-fearful  joy  and  of  impending  fate.  She  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  quaint,  little  chamber.  The  ceiling  was  low.  She  had  to 
bend  her  head  to  avoid  violent  contact  between  the  central  beam 
of  it  and  the  crown  of  her  felt  hat.  But  circumscribed  though 
the  space,  and  uncomfortable  though  her  posture,  she  had  an 
absurd  longing  to  lock  the  door  of  the  little  room,  never  to  come 
out,  to  stay  here  forever  !  Here  she  was  safe.  But  outside,  on 
the  threshold,  stood  something  she  dared  not  name.  It  drew 
her  with  a  pain  at  once  terrible  and  lovely.  She  dreaded  it. 
Yet  once  close  to  it,  once  face  to  face  with  it,  she  knew  it  would 
have  her ;  that  it  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  Her  pride, 
her  chastity,  was  in  arms.  Was  this,  she  wondered,  what  men 
and  women  speak  of  so  lightly,  laugh  and  joke  about  ?  Was  this 
love  ?— To  her  it  seemed  wholly  awe-inspiring.  And  so  she  clung 
strangely  to  the  shelter  of  the  quaint,  little  room  with  its  sea  of 
rustling,  resinous  shavings.  On  the  other  side  the  door  of  it 
waited  that  momentous  decision  which  would  cause  the  scale  to 
turn.  Yet  the  minutes  passed.  To  prolong  her  absence  became 
impossible. 

Just  then  there  was  a  movement  below,  a  crunching  of  the 
gravel,  as  though  of  a  horse  growing  restless,  impatient  of 
standing.  Honoria  moved  forward,  opened  the  window,  pushing 
back  the  casement  against  a  cluster  of  late-blossoming,  red  roses, 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  6oi 

the  petals  of  which  floated  slowly  downward  describing  fluttering 
circles.  Richard  Calmady  was  just  below.  Honoria  called  to 
him. 

"  I  am  coming,  Richard,  I  am  coming  !  "  she  said. 

He  turned  in  the  saddle  and  looked  up  at  her  smiling — a 
smile  at  once  courageous  and  resigned.  Yet,  notwithstanding 
that  smile,  Honoria  once  again  discovered  in  his  eyes  the  chill 
desolation  and  homelessness  of  the  sky  of  the  winter  night. 
Then  the  scale  turned,  turned  at  last ;  for  that  same  lovely  pain 
grew  lovelier,  more  desirable  than  any  possibility  of  ease,  until 
such  time  as  that  desolation  should  pass,  that  homelessness  be 
cradled  to  content  in  some  sure  harbourage. — Here  was  the 
thing  given  her  to  do,  and  she  must  do  it !  She  would  risk  all  to 
win  all.  And,  with  that  decision,  her  serenity  and  freedom  of 
soul  returned.  The  white  light  of  a  noble  self-devotion,  reck- 
less of  self-spending,  reckless  of  consequence,  the  joy  of  a  great 
giving,  illuminated  her  face. 

As  to  Richard,  he,  looking  up  at  her,  though  ignorant  of  her 
purpose,  misreading  the  cause  of  that  inspired  aspect,  still 
thought  he  had  never  witnessed  so  graciously  gallant  a  sight. 
The  nymph  whom  he  had  first  known,  who  had  bafiied  and 
crossed  him,  was  here  still,  strong,  untamed,  elusive,  remote. 
But  a  woman  was  here  too,  of  finest  fibre,  faithful  and  loyal, 
capable  of  undying  tenderness,  of  an  all-encircling  and  heroic  love. 
Then  the  desires  of  the  natural  man  stirred  somewhat  in  Richard, 
just  because — paradox  though  it  undoubtedly  was — she  provoked 
less  the  carnal,  perishing  passion  of  the  flesh,  than  the  pure  and 
imperishable  passion  of  the  spirit.  Irrepressible  envy  of  Ludovic 
Quayle,  her  lover,  seized  him,  irrepressible  demand  for  just  all 
those  things  which  that  other  Richard,  the  would-be  saint,  had  so 
sternly  condemned  himself  to  repudiate,  to  cast  aside  and  forget. 
And  the  would-be  saint  triumphed — beating  down  thought  of  all 
that,  trampling  it  under  foot — so  that  after  briefest  interval  he 
called  up  to  her  cheerily  enough. 

*'  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  the  dust-cart  ?  Rather  fascinat- 
ing, isn't  it?  Notwithstanding  its  uncleanly  name,  it's  really 
rather  sweet." 

To  which  she  answered,  speaking  from  out  the  wide  back- 
ground of  her  own  emotion  and  purpose  :— 

"  Yes,  yes — it's  sad  in  a  way,  Richard,  penetratingly, 
splendidly  sad.  But  one  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise ;  for  it  is 
splendid,  and  it  is  sweet,  abundantly  sweet." — Then  her  tone 
changed. — "  I  won't  keep  you  waiting  any  longer,  I'm  coming," 
she  said. 


6o2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Honoria  looked  round  the  quaint,  little  room,  with  its  half- 
adjusted  shelves  and  cupboards,  the  floor  of  it  deep  in  resinous, 
semi-transparent,  wafer-coloured  shavings,  bidding  it  adieu.  For 
good  or  evil,  happiness  or  sorrow,  she  was  sensible  it  told  for 
much  in  her  life's  experience.  Then,  something  delicately  militant 
in  her  carriage,  she  swung  away  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house. 
She  was  going  forth  to  war  indeed,  to  a  war  which  in  no  shape 
or  form  had  she  ever  waged  as  yet.  Many  men  had  wooed  her, 
and  their  wooing  had  left  her  cold.  She  had  never  wooed  any 
man.  Why  should  she  ?  To  her  no  man  had  ever  mattered 
one  little  bit. 

So  she  mounted,  and  they  rode  away. — A  spin  across  the 
level  turf  to  hearten  her  up,  satisfy  the  fulness  of  sensation  which 
held  her,  and  shake  her  nerves  into  place.  It  was  exhilarating. 
She  grew  keen  and  tense,  her  whole  economy  becoming  reliable 
and  well-knit  by  the  strong  exercise  and  sense  of  the  superbly 
healthy  and  unperplexed  vitality  of  the  horse  under  her.  Honoria 
could  have  fought  with  dragons  just  then,  had  such  been  there 
to  fight  with !  But,  in  point  of  fact,  nothing  more  aggressively 
dangerous  presented  itself  for  encounter  than  the  shallow  ford 
which  divides  the  parish  of  Farley  from  that  of  Sandyfield  and 
the  tithing  of  Brockhurst.  Snorting  a  little,  the  horses  splashed 
through  the  clear,  brown  water  and  entered  upon  the  rough, 
rutted  road,  grass-grown  in  places,  which,  ending  beneath  a 
broken  avenue  of  ancient,  stag-headed  oaks,  leads  to  the  entrance 
of  the  Brockhurst  woods.  These,  crowned  by  the  dark,  ragged 
line  of  the  fir  forest,  rose  in  a  soft,  dense  mass  against  the  western 
sky,  in  which  showed  promise  of  a  fair  pageant  of  sunset. 
A  covey  of  partridges  ran  up  the  sandy  ruts  before  the  horses, 
and,  rising  at  last  with  a  long-drawn  whir  of  wings,  skimmed  the 
top  of  the  crumbling  bank  and  dropped  in  the  stubble-field  on 
the  right.  A  pause,  while  the  keeper's  wife  ran  out  to  open  the 
white  gate, — the  dogs  meanwhile,  from  their  wooden  kennels 
under  the  Spanish  chestnuts  upon  the  hillock  behind  the  lodge, 
pulling  at  their  chains  and  keeping  up  a  vociferous  chorus. 
Thus  heralded,  the  riders  passed  into  the  mysteriously  whispering 
quiet  of  the  great  woods. 

The  heavy,  summer  foliage  remained  as  yet  untouched  by  the 
hectic  of  autumn.  Diversity  was  observable  in  form  rather  than 
in  tint,  and  from  this  resulted  a  remarkable  effect  of  unity,  a 
singleness  of  intention,  and  of  far-reaching  secrecy.  The  multi- 
tudinous leaves  and  the  all-pervading  green  gloom  of  them 
around,  above,  seemed  to  engulf  horses  and  riders.  It  was  as 
though   they   rode   across   the   floor  of  ocean,  the  green  tides 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  603 

sweeping  overhead.  Yet  the  trees  of  the  wood  asserted  their 
inteUigent  presence  now  and  again.  Audibly  they  talked  to- 
gether, bent  themselves  a  little  to  listen  and  to  look,  as  though 
curious  of  the  aspect  and  purposes  of  these  wandering  mortals. 
And  all  this,  the  unity  and  secrecy  of  the  place,  affected  both 
Richard  and  Honoria  strangely,  circling  them  about  with  some- 
thing of  earth-magic,  removing  them  far  from  ordinary  conditions 
of  social  intercourse,  and  thus  rendering  it  possible,  inevitable 
even,  that  they  should  think  such  thoughts  and  say  such  words 
as  part  company  with  subterfuge  and  concealment,  go  nakedj  and 
speak  uttermost  truth.  For,  with  only  the  trees  of  the  wood  to 
listen,  with  that  sibilant  whisper  of  the  green  tide  overhead,  with 
strong  emotion  compelling  them — in  the  one  case  towards  death 
of  self,  in  the  other  towards  giving  of  self — in  the  one  towards 
austere  passivity,  in  the  other  towards  activity  taxing  all  capital  of 
pride,  of  delicacy,  and  of  tact — developments  became  imminent, 
and  those  of  the  most  vital  sort. 

The  conversation  had  been  broken,  desultory ;  but  now,  by 
tacit  consent,  the  pace  became  quiet  again,  the  horses  were 
permitted  to  walk.  To  have  gone  other  than  softly  through  the 
living  heart  of  the  greenwood  must  have  savoured  of  desecration. 
Yet  Richard  was  not  insensible  to  a  certain  danger.  He  tried, 
rousing  himself  to  conversation,  to  rouse  himself  also  to  the 
practical  and  commonplace. 

*'  I  am  glad  you  liked  my  house,"  he  said.  "  But  I  hear  the 
aristocracy  of  the  Row  laments.  It  shies  at  the  idea  of  being 
invaded  by  more  or  less  frightful  creatures.  But  I  remain 
deaf.  I  really  can't  bother  abou^  that.  It  is  so  immeasur- 
ably more  unpleasant  to  be  frightful  than  to  see  that  which 
is  so,  that  I'm  afraid  my  sympathies  remain  rather  pig-headedly 
one-sided.  I  propose  to  educate  the  Row  in  the  grace  of 
pity.     It  may  lay  up  merit  by  due  exercise  of  that." 

Richard  took  off  his  hat  and  rode  bare-headed,  looking  away 
into  the  delicious,  green  gloom.  Here,  where  the  wood  was 
thickest,  oak  and  beech  shutting  out  the  sky,  clasping  hands 
overhead,  the  ground  beneath  them  deep  in  moss  and  fern,  that 
gloom  was  exactly  like  the  colour  of  Honoria's  eyes.  He 
wished  it  wasn't  so.  He  tried  to  forget  it.  But  the  resemblance 
haunted  him.  Look  where  he  might,  still  he  seemed  to  look 
into  those  singular  and  charming  eyes.  He  talked  on 
determinedly,  putting  a  force  upon  himself,  too  often  saying 
that  which,  no  sooner  was  it  out  of  his  mouth,  than  he  wished 
unsaid. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  the  Row,  though.     It  has  a 


604  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

right,  after  all,  to  its  little  prejudices.  Only  you  see  for  those 
who,  poor  souls,  are  different  to  other  people  it  becomes  of  such 
supreme  importance  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  average.  I  have 
found  that  out  in  practice.  And  so  I  refuse  to  shut  my  waste 
humanity  away.  They  must  neither  hide  themselves  nor  be 
hidden,  be  spared  seeing  how  much  other  people  enjoy 
from  which  they  are  debarred,  nor  grow  over-conscious  of  their 
own  ungainlincss.  That  is  why  I've  planted  them  and  their 
gardens,  and  their  pigs  and  their  poultry — we'll  have  a  lot 
of  live  stock,  a  second  generation,  even  of  chickens,  offers 
remarkable  consolations  —  on  the  highroad,  at  the  entrance 
of  the  little  town,  where,  on  a  small  scale  at  all  events, 
they'll  see  the  world  that's  straight-backed  and  has  its  proper 
complement  of  limbs  and  senses,  go  by.  Envy,  hatred,  and 
malice,  and  the  seven  devils  of  morbidity  are  forever 
lying  in  wait  for  them — well— for  us — for  me  and  those  like 
me,  I  mean.  In  proportion  as  one's  brought  up  tenderly — 
as  I  was — one  doesn't  realise  the  deprivation  and  disgust  of 
one's  condition  at  the  start.  But  once  realised,  one's  inclina- 
tion is  to  kill.  At  least  a  man's  is.  A  woman  may  accept  it 
more  quietly,  I  suppose." 

"Richard,"  Honoria  said  slowly,  "are  you  sure  you  don't 
greatly  exaggerate  all — all  that  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Thirty  years'  experience — no,  I  don't  exaggerate!  Each 
time  one  makes  a  fresh  acquaintance,  each  time  a  pretty  woman 
is  just  that  bit  kinder  to  one  than  she  would  dare  be  to  any  man 
who  was  not  out  of  it,  each  time  people  are  manifestly  interested 
— politely,  of  course — and  form  a  circle,  make  room  for  one  as 
they  did  at  that  particularly  disagreeable  Grimshott  garden-party 
yesterday,  each  time — I  don't  want  to  drivel,  but  so  it  is — one 
sees  a  pair  of  lovers — oh  !  well,  it's  not  easy  to  retain  one's 
philosophy,  not  to  obey  the  primitive  instincts  of  any  animal 
when  it's  ill-used  and  hurt,  and  to  revenge  oneself — to  want  to  kill, 
in  short." 

"You — you  don't  hate  women,  then?"  Honoria  said,  still 
slowly. 

Richard  stared  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Hate  them  ?  "  he  said.     "  I  only  wish  to  goodness  I  did." 

"But  in  that  case,"  she  began  bravely,  "why" — 

"This  is  why,"  he  broke  in. — "You  may  remember  my 
engagement  to  Lady  Constance  Quayle,  and  the  part  you,  very 
properly,  took  in  the  cancelling  of  it  ?  You  know  better  than  I 
do — though  my  imagination  is  pretty  fertile  in  dealing  with  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  605 

situation — what  instincts  and  feelings  prompted  you  to  take  that 
part." 

The  young  lady  turned  to  him,  her  arms  outstretched,  not- 
withstanding bridle-reins  and  whip,  her  face,  and  those  strange 
eyes  which  seemed  so  integral  a  part  of  the  fair  greenwood,  full 
of  sorrowful  entreaty  and  distress. 

"Richard,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "will  you  never  forgive  me 
that  ?  She  didn't  love  you.  It  was  horrible,  yet  in  doing  that 
which  I  did,  I  believed — I  believe  so  still — I  did  what  was  right 
by  you  both." 

"  Undoubtedly  you  did  right,  and  that  justifies  my  contention. 
In  doing  that  which  you  did  you  gave  voice  to  the  opinion  of  all 
wholesome-minded  people.  That's  exactly  where  it  is.  You 
felt  the  whole  business  to  be  outrageous.  So  it  was.  I  heartily 
agree." — He  paused,  and  the  trees  talked  softly  together,  bending 
down  a  little  to  listen  and  to  look. — "  As  you  say,  she  wasn't  in 
love.  Poor  child,  how  could  she  be  ?  No  woman  ever  will  be — 
at  least  not  in  love  of  the  nobler  sort,  of  the  sort  which  if  one 
cannot  have  it,  one  had  a  vast  deal  better  have  no  love  at  all." 

"  But  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Honoria  said  stoutly.  "  You 
rush  to  conclusions.  Isn't  it  rather  a  reflection  on  all  the  rest  of 
us  to  take  little  Lady  Constance  as  the  measure  of  the  insight 
and  sensibility  of  the  whole  sex  ?  And  then  she  had  already  lost 
all  her  innocent,  little  heart  to  Captain  Decies.  Indeed  you're 
not  fair  to  us. — Wait" — 

"Like  Ludovic  Quayle?" 

Miss  St.  Quentin  straightened  herself  in  the  saddle. 

"  Oh  !  dear  no,  not  the  least  like  Ludovic  Quayle  ! "  she  said. 

Which  enigmatic  reply  produced  silence  for  a  while  on 
Dickie's  part.  For  there  were  various  ways  in  which  it  might 
be  interpreted,  some  flattering,  some  eminently  unflattering,  to 
himself  And  from  every  point  of  view  it  was  wisest  to  accept 
that  last  form  of  interpretation.  The  whole  conversation  had 
been  perilous  in  character.  It  had  been  too  intimate,  had 
touched  him  too  nearly,  taking  place  here  in  the  clear  glooms 
of  the  greenwood  moreover  which  bore  such  haunting  kinship 
to  those  singularly  sincere,  and  yet  mysterious,  eyes.  It  is 
dangerous  to  ride  across  the  floor  of  ocean  with  the  whispering 
tides  sweeping  overhead,  and  in  such  gallant  company,  besides, 
that  to  ride  thus  forever  could  hardly  come  amiss  ! — Richard,  in 
his  turn,  straightened  himself  up  in  the  saddle,  opened  his  chest, 
taking  a  long  breath,  carried  his  head  high,  said  a  stern  "get 
thee  behind  me,  .Satan,"  to  encroaching  sentiment  and  emotion, 
and  to  those  fair  visions  which  his  companion's  presence  and 


6o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her  somewhat  daring  talk  had  conjured  up.  He  defied  the  earth- 
magic,  defied  those  sylvan  deities  who,  as  he  divined,  sought 
to  enthral  him.  For  the  moment  he  confounded  Honoria's 
influence  with  theirs.  It  was  something  of  a  battle,  and  not  the 
first  one  he  had  fought  to-day.  For  the  great,  white  road  which 
leads  onward  to  Perfection  looked  dusty  and  arid  enough — no 
reposeful  shadow,  no  mystery,  no  beguiling  green  glooms  over  it. 
Stark,  straight,  hard,  it  stretched  on  endlessly,  as  it  seemed, 
ahead.  To  travel  it  was  slow  and  tedious  work,  in  any  case ; 
and  to  travel  it  on  crutches  ! — But  it  was  worse  than  useless  to 
play  with  such  thoughts  as  these.  He  would  put  a  stop  to  this 
disintegrating  talk.  He  turned  to  Honoria  and  spoke  lightly, 
with  a  return  of  self-mockery. 

"  Oh  !  your  first  instinct  was  the  true  one,  depend  upon  it," 
he  said.  "Though  I  don't  deny  it  contributed,  indirectly,  to 
giving  me  a  pretty  rough  time." 

"  Oh  !  dear  me  ! "  Honoria  cried,  almost  piteously.  Then  she 
added  : — "  But  I  don't  see,  why  was  that?" 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  I  had  a  sort  of  unwilling  belief  in  you," 
he  said,  smiling. — Oh  !  this  accursed  conversation,  why  would  it 
insistently  drift  back  into  intimacy  thus  ! 

"  Have  I  justified  that  belief?  "  she  asked,  with  a  certain  pride 
yet  a  certain  eagerness. 

"  More  than  justified  it,"  Dickie  answered.  "  My  mother,  who 
has  a  touchstone  for  all  that  is  of  high  worth,  knew  you  from  the 
first.  Like  the  devils,  I — I  believed  and  trembled — at  least  that 
is  how  I  see  it  all  now.  So  your  action  came  as  a  rather  search- 
ing revelation  and  condemnation.  When  I  perceived  all  that  it 
involved— oh,  well !  first  I  went  to  the  dogs,  and  then  " — • 

The  horses  walked  side  by  side.  Honoria  stretched  out  her 
hand  impulsively,  laid  it  on  his  arm. 

"  Richard,  Richard,  for  pity's  sake  don't !  You  hurt  me  too 
much.     It's  terrible  to  have  been  the  cause  of  such  suffering." 

"You  weren't  the  cause,"  he  said.  "Lies  were  the  cause, 
behind  which,  like  a  fool,  I'd  tried  to  shelter  myself.  You've 
been  right,  Honoria,  from  first  to  last.  What  does  it  matter  after 
all  ? — Don't  take  it  to  heart.  For  it's  over  now,  all  over,  thank 
God,  and  I  have  got  back  into  normal  relations  with  things 
and  with  people."  —  He  looked  at  her  very  charmingly,  and 
spoke  with  a  fine  courtesy  of  tone. — "One  way  and  another 
you  have  taught  me  a  lot,  and  I  am  grateful.  And,  in  the  future, 
though  the  conditions  will  be  altered,  I  hope  you'll  come  back 
here  often,  Honoria,  and  just  see  for  yourself  that  my  mother  is 
content ;  and  give  my  schemes  and  fads  a  kindly  look  in  at  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  607 

same  time.  And  perhaps  give  me  a  trifle  of  sound  advice.  I 
shall  need  it  safe  enough.  You  see  what  I  want  to  get  at  is 
temperance — temperance  all  round,  towards  everything  and  every- 
body— not  fanaticism,  which,  in  some  respects,  is  a  much  easier 
attitude  of  mind." 

Richard  looked  up  into  the  whispering,  green  tide  overhead. 

"Yes,  one  must  deny  oneself  the  luxury  of  fanaticism,  if 
possible,"  he  said,  "  deny  oneself  the  vanity  of  eccentricity.  One 
must  take  everything  simply,  just  in  the  day's  work.  One  must 
keep  in  touch.  Keep  in  touch  with  your  world,  the  great  world, 
the  world  which  cultivates  pleasure  and  incidentally  makes  history, 
as  well  as  with  the  world  of  the  dust-cart — I  know  that  well 
enough — if  one's  to  be  quite  sane.  You  see  loneliness,  a  lone- 
liness of  which  I  am  thankful  to  think  you  can  form  no  concep- 
tion, is  the  curse  of  persons  like  myself.  It  inclines  one  to  hide, 
to  sulk,  to  shut  oneself  away  and  become  misanthropic.  To 
hug  one's  misery  becomes  one's  chiefest  pleasure — to  nurse  one's 
grief  and  one's  sense  of  injury.  Oh  !  I'm  wary,  very  wary  now, 
I  tell  you,"  he  added,  half  laughing.  "  I  know  all  the  insidious 
temptations,  the  tricks  and  frauds  and  pit-falls  of  this  affair. 
And  so  I'll  continue  to  go  to  Grimshott  garden-parties  as  discipline 
now  and  then,  while  I  gather  my  disabled  and  decrepit  family 
very  closely  about  me  and  say  words  of  wisdom  to  it — wisdom 
derived  from  a  mature  and  extensive  personal  experience." 

There  was  a  pause  before  Miss  St.  Quentin  spoke.  Then  she 
said  slowly. 

*'  And  you  refuse  to  let  anyone  help  ?  You,  you  refuse  to  let 
anyone  share  the  cares  of  that  disabled  family?" 

Again  Dickie  stared  at  her,  arrested  by  her  speech  and  doubt- 
ful of  the  intention  of  it.  He  could  have  sworn  there  were  tears 
in  her  voice,  that  it  shook.  But  her  face  was  averted,  and  he 
could  see  no  more  than  the  slightly  angular  outline  of  her  cheek 
and  chin. 

"  Isn't  that  a  rather  superflous  question  ?  "  he  remarked.  "  As 
you  pointed  out  a  little  while  ago,  mine  is  not  a  superabundantly 
cheerful  programme.  No  one  would  volunteer  for  such  service — 
at  least  no  one  likely  to  be  acceptable  to  my  mother,  or  indeed 
likely  to  satisfy  my  own  requirements.  I  admit,  I'm  a  little 
fastidious,  a  little  critical  and  exacting,  when  it  comes  to  close 
quarters  and — well — permanent  association,  even  yet." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hoar  that,"  Honoria  said.  Her  face 
remained  averted,  but  there  was  a  change  in  her  attitude,  a 
decision  in  the  pose  of  her  figure,  suggestive  both  of  challenge 
and  of  triumjih. 


6oS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  was  nonplussed,  but  his  blood  was  up.  This  con- 
versation had  gone  far  enough — indeed  too  far.  Very  certainly 
he  would  make  an  end  of  it. 

"  But  God  forbid,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  I  should  ever  fall  to 
such  a  depth  of  selfishness  as  to  invite  any  person  who  would 
satisfy  my  taste,  my  demands,  to  share  my  life  !  I  mayn't  amount 
to  very  much,  but  at  least  I  have  never  used  my  personal  ill-luck 
to  trade  on  a  woman's  generosity  and  pity.  What  I  have  had 
from  women,  I've  paid  for,  in  hard  cash.  In  that  respect  my 
conscience  is  clear.  It  has  been  a  bargain,  fair  and  square  and 
above  board,  and  all  my  debts  are  settled  in  full.  You  hardly 
think  at  this  time  of  day  I  should  use  my  proposed  schemes  of 
philanthropy  as  a  bait  ?  " 

Richard  sent  his  horse  forward  at  a  sharp  trot. 

"  No,  no,  Honoria,"  he  said,  "  let  it  be  understood  that  side 
of  things  is  over  forever." 

But  here  came  relief  from  the  green  glooms  of  the  greenwood 
and  the  dangerous  magic  of  them.  For  the  riders  had  reached 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  entered  upon  the  levels  of  the  great 
tableland,  at  the  edge  of  which  Brockhurst  House  stands.  Here 
was  the  open,  the  fresh  breeze,  the  long-drawn,  sighing  song  of 
the  fir  forest — a  song  more  austere,  more  courageous,  more  virile, 
than  any  ever  sung  by  the  trees  of  the  wood  which  drop  their 
leaves  for  fear  of  the  sharp-toothed  winter,  and  only  put  them 
forth  again  beneath  the  kisses  of  soft-lipped  spring.  Covering 
all  the  western  sky  were  lines  of  softly-rounded,  broken  cloud, 
rank  behind  rank,  in  endless  perspective,  the  whole  shaped  like  a 
mighty  fan.  The  under  side  of  them  was  flushed  with  living  rose. 
The  clear  spaces  behind  them  paved  with  sapphire  at  the  zenith, 
and  palest  topaz  where  they  skirted  the  far  horizon. 

"  How  very  beautiful  it  is ! "  Honoria  cried,  joyously. 
"  Richard,  let  us  see  this." 

She  turned  her  horse  at  the  green  ride  which  leads  to  the 
white  Temple,  situate  on  that  outstanding  spur  of  hill.  She 
rode  on  quickly  till  she  reached  the  platform  of  turf  before  the 
summer-house.  Richard  followed  her  with  deliberation.  He  was 
shaken.  His  calm  was  broken  up,  his  whole  being  in  tumult. 
AVhy  had  she  pressed  just  all  those  matters  home  on  him  which 
he  had  agreed  with  himself  to  cast  aside  and  forget?  It  was  a 
little  cruel,  surely,  that  temptation  should  assail  him  thus,  and 
the  white  road  towards  Perfection  be  made  so  difficult  to  tread, 
just  when  he  had  re-dedicated  himself  and  renewed  his  vows  ? 
He  looked  after  her.  It  was  here  he  had  met  her  first — after  the 
time  when,  as  a  little  maid,  she  had  proved  too  swift  of  foot. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  609 

leaving  him  so  far  behind  that  it  sorely  hurt  his  small  dignity  and 
caused  him  to  see  her  depart  without  regret.  She  was  still  swift 
of  foot.  She  left  him  behind  now.  For  the  moment  he  was 
ready  to  swear  that  not  only  without  regret  but  with  actual 
thankfulness,  he  could  again  witness  her  departure.  —  Yes,  he 
wanted  her  to  go,  because  he  so  desperately  wanted  her  to  stay 

that  was  the  truth.     For  not  only  Dickie  the  natural  man,  but 

Dickie  "the  wild  bull  in  a  net,"  had  a  word  to  say  just  then. 
God  in  heaven  what  hard  work  it  is  to  be  good  ! 

Miss  St.  Quentin  kicked  her  left  foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  threw 
her  right  leg  over  the  pommel,  turned,  and  slipped  straight  out 
of  the  saddle.  She  stood  there  a  somewhat  severely  tall,  dark 
figure,  strong  and  positive  in  effect,  against  the  immense  and 
reposeful  landscape— far-ranging,  purple  distance,  golden  harvest- 
fields,  silver  glint  of  water  in  the  hollows,  all  the  massive  grandeur 
of  the  woods,  and  that  superb  pageant  of  sunset  sky. 

The  groom  rode  forward,  took  her  horse,  led  it  away  to  the 
far  side  of  the  grass  platform  behind  the  Temple.  Those  ranks 
of  rosy  cloud  in  infinite  perspective,  with  spaces  of  clearest  topaz 
and  sapphire  light  between,  converged  to  the  glowing  glory  of 
the  sun,  the  rim  of  which  now  touched  the  margin  of  the  world. 
They  were  as  ranks  of  worshippers,  of  blessed  souls  redeemed 
and  sainted,  united  in  a  common  act  of  adoration,  every  form 
clothed  by  reflection  of  His  glory,  every  heart,  every  thought 
centred  upon  God. — Richard  looked  at  all  that,  but  it  failed  to 
speak  to  him.  Then  he  saw  Honoria  resolutely  turn  her  back 
upon  the  glory.  She  came  directly  towards  him.  Her  face  was 
very  thin,  her  manner  very  calm.  She  laid  her  left  hand  on  the 
peak  of  his  saddle.     She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "be  patient  a  minute  and  listen.  It 
comes  to  this,  that  a  woman — your  ccjual  in  position,  of  your 
own  age,  and  not  without  money — does  volunteer  to  share 
your  work.  It's  no  forlorn  hope.  She  is  not  disapjDointcd.  On 
the  contrary  she  has,  and  can  have,  pretty  well  all  the  world's 
got  to  give.  Only — perhaps  very  foolishly,  for  she  doesn't  know 
much  about  the  matter,  having  been  rather  cold-blooded  so  far 
— she  has  fallen  in  love." 

There  was  a  silence,  save  that  the  wind  came  out  of  the 
west,  out  of  the  majesty  of  the  sunset ;  and  with  it  came  the 
calling  of  the  sea — not  only  of  the  blue  water,  or  of  those  green 
tides  that  sweep  above  wandering  mortals  in  the  magic  green- 
wood, but  of  the  sea  of  faith,  of  the  sea  of  love — love  human, 
love  divine,  love  universal  —  which  circles  not  only  this,  but 
all  possible  states  of  being,  all  possible  worlds. 

39 


6io  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Presently  Richard  spoke  hoarsely,  under  his  breath. 

"With  whom?"  he  said. 

"  With  you  "— 

Dickie  went  white  to  the  lips.  He  sat  absolutely  still  for  a 
little  space,  his  hands  resting  on  his  thighs. 

"Tell  her  to  think,"  he  said,  at  last. — "She  proposes  to  do 
that  which  the  world  will  condemn,  and  rightly  from  its  point  of 
view.  It  will  misread  her  motives.  It  won't  spare  disagreeable 
comment.  Tell  her  to  think. — Tell — tell  her  to  look. — Cripple, 
dwarf,  the  last,  as  he  ought  to  be,  of  an  unlucky  race — a  man 
who's  carried  up  and  down  stairs  like  a  baby,  who's  strapped  to 
the  saddle,  strapped  to  the  driving-seat — who  is  cut  off  from 
most  forms  of  activity  and  of  sport — a  man  who  will  never 
have  any  sort  of  career ;  who  has  given  himself,  in  expiation  of  past 
sins,  to  the  service  of  human  beings  a  degree  more  unfortunate 
than  himself. — No,  no,  stop — hear  me  out. — She  must  know  it  all ! 
— A  man  who  has  lived  far  from  cleanly,  who  has  evil  memories 
and  evil  knowledge  of  life — no — listen.  A  man  whom  you — yes, 
you  yourself,  Honoria — have  condemned  bitterly;  from  whom, 
notwithstanding  your  splendid  nerve  and  pluck,  so  hateful  is  his 
deformity,  you  have  shrunk  a  hundred  times." 

"She  has  thought  of  all  that,"  Honoria  answered  calmly. 
"  But  she  has  thought  of  this  too — that,  going  up  and  down  the 
world  to  find  the  most  excellent  thing  in  it,  she  has  found  this 
thing,  love.  And  so  to  her,  Richard,  your  crippling  has  come  to 
be  dearer  than  any  other  man's  wholeness.  Your  wrong  doings 
— may  God  forgive  her — dearer  than  any  other  man's  virtue. 
Your  virtues  so  wholly  beautiful  that — that " — 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  her  lips  quivered,  she  backed 
away  a  little  from  rider  and  horse. 

"Richard,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "if  you  don't  care  for  me,  if 
you  don't  want  me,  be  honourable,  tell  me  so  straight  out  and  let  us 
have  done  with  it !  I  am  strong  enough,  I  am  man  enough,  for 
that.  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  take  me  out  of  pity.  I  would 
never  forgive  you.  There's  a  good  deal  of  us  both,  one  way  and 
another,  and  we  should  give  each  other  a  hell  of  a  time  if  I  was 
in  love  and  you  were  not.  But " — she  put  her  hand  on  the  peak 
of  that  very  ugly  saddle  again — "  but,  if  you  do  care,  here  I  am. 
I  have  never  failed  anyone  yet.  I  will  never  fail  you.  I  am 
yours  body  and  soul.     Marry  me,"  she  said. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  6ii 


CHAPTER  XI 

IX    WHICH    RICHARD    CALMADY    BIDS   THE    LOXG-SUFFERING 
READER    FAREWELL 

THE  midsummer  dusk  had  fallen,  drawing  its  soft,  dim 
mantle  over  the  face  of  the  land.  The  white  light 
walked  the  northern  sky  from  west  to  east.  A  nightingale  sang 
in  the  big,  Portugal  laurel  at  the  corner  of  the  troco-ground ;  and 
was  answered  by  another  singer  from  the  coppice,  across  the 
valley,  bordering  the  trout  stream  that  feeds  the  Long  Water.  A 
fox  barked  sharply  out  in  the  Warren.  Beetles  droned,  flying 
conspicuously  upright,  straight  on  end,  through  the  warm  air. 
The  churring  of  the  night-hawks,  as  they  flitted  hither  and  thither 
over  the  beds  of  bracken  and  dog-roses,  like  gigantic  moths,  on 
quick,  silent  wings,  formed  a  continuous  accompaniment,  as  of 
a  spinning-wheel,  to  the  other  sounds.  And  Dick  Ormiston 
laughed  consumedly,  doubling  himself  together  now  and  again 
and  holding  his  slim  sides  in  effort  to  moderate  his  explosive 
merriment.  He  was  in  uproarious  spirits. — Back  from  school 
to-day,  and  that  nearly  a  month  earlier  than  could  by  the  most 
favourable  process  of  calculation  have  been  anticipated,  thanks 
to  development  of  measles  on  the  part  of  some  much-to-be- 
commended  schoolfellows.  How  he  blessed  those  praiseworthy 
young  sufferers  !  And  how  he  laughed,  watching  the  two  heavy- 
headed,  lolloping,  half-grown,  bull-dog  puppies  describe  crazy 
circles  upon  the  smooth  turf  in  the  deepening  dusk.  Seen  thus 
in  the  half-light  they  appeared  more  than  ever  gnome-like, 
humorously  ugly  and  awkward.  They  trod  on  their  own  ears, 
tumbled  over  one  another,  sprawled  on  the  grass,  pant- 
ing and  grinning,  until  their  ecstatic  owner  incited  them  to 
further  gyrations.  To  Dick  this  was  a  night  of  unbridled  licence. 
Had  he  not  dined  late  ?  Had  he  not  leave  to  sit  up  till  half- 
past  ten  o'clock  ?  Was  he  not  going  out,  bright  and  early,  to- 
morrow morning  to  see  the  horses  galloped  ?  Could  life  hold 
greater  complement  of  good  for  a  brave,  little,  ten-year-old  soul, 
and  serviceable,  little,  ten-year-old  b<Kly  enmlous  of  all  manly 
virtues  and  manly  pastimes  ? 

.So  the  boy  laughed  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  laughter  reached 
the  ears  both  of  the  elder  and  the  younger  Lady  Calmady,  as  they 
slowly  paced  the  straight  walk  between  the  grey  balustrade  and 
the  edge  of  the  turf     On  their  left  the  great  outstretch  of  valley 


6i2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  wood  lay  drowned  in  the  suave  uncertainties  of  the  summer 
night.  Before  them  was  the  whole  terrace-front  of  the  house, 
its  stacks  of  twisted  chimneys  clear  cut  against  the  sky. 
Bright  light  shone  out  from  the  windows  of  the  red  drawing- 
room,  and  from  those  of  the  hall,  bringing  flowers,  sections  of 
grey  pavement,  and  like  details  into  sharp  relief.  There  were 
passing  lights  in  the  range  of  windows  above,  suggesting  cheerful 
movement  within  the  great  house.  At  the  southern  end  of  the 
terrace,  just  below  the  arcade  of  the  garden -hall  —  which 
showed  pale  against  the  shadow  within  and  brickwork  above — 
two  men  were  sitting.  Their  voices  reached  the  ladies  now  and 
then  in  quiet  yet  animated  talk.  A  spirit  of  peace,  of  security, 
of  firmly  -  planted  hope,  seemed  to  pervade  all  the  scene,  all 
the  place.  Waking  or  sleeping,  fear  was  banished.  All  was 
strong  to  work  to-morrow,  therefore  to-night  all  could  calmly 
yield  itself  to  rest. 

And  it  was  a  sense  of  just  this,  and  a  tender  anxiety  lest  the 
fulness  of  the  gracious  content  of  it  should  be  in  any  degree 
marred  to  her  dear  companion,  which  made  Honoria  Calmady 
say  presently  : — 

"You  don't  mind  little  Dick's  racketting  with  those  ridiculous 
puppies,  do  you.  Cousin  Katherine?  If  it  bothers  you  I'll  stop 
him  like  a  shot." 

But  Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  My  dearest  child,  why  stop  him  ? "  she  said.  "  The 
foolishnesses  of  young  creatures  at  play  is  delicious ;  and  laughter, 
so  long  as  it  is  not  cruel,  I  reckon  among  the  good  gifts  of  God." 
— She  paused  a  moment.  "  Dear  Marie  de  Mirancourt  tried  to 
teach  me  that  long  ago,  but  I  was  culpably  dull  of  hearing  in 
these  days  where  spiritual  truth  was  concerned,  and  I  failed  to 
grasp  her  meaning.  I  believe  we  never  really  love,  either  man 
or  Almighty  God,  until  we  can  both  laugh  ourselves  and  let  others 
laugh.  Of  all  false  doctrines  that  of  the  sour-faced,  joyless 
puritan  is  the  falsest.  His  mere  outward  aspect  is  a  sin  against 
the  Holy  Ghost." 

And  Honoria  smiled,  patting  the  hand  which  lay  on  her  arm 
very  tenderly. 

"  How  I  love  your  heavenly  rage  ! "  she  said.  They  moved 
on  a  few  steps  in  silence.  Then,  careless  of  all  the  rapture  its 
notification  of  the  passing  of  time  might  cut  short,  the  clock  at 
the  house  stables  chimed  the  half-hour.  Honoria  paused  in  her 
gentle  walk. 

"  Bed-time,  Dick,"  she  cried, 

"  All  right,"  the  boy  returned.     He  pursued,  and  laid  hold  of, 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  613 

the  errant  puppies,  stowing  them,  not  without  kickings  and 
strugglings  on  their  part,  one  under  either  arm.  They  were 
large  and  heavy,  just  as  much  as  he  could  carry ;  and  he  staggered 
across  the  grass  with  them,  presenting  the  effect  of  a  small,  black 
donkey  between  a  pair  of  very  big,  white  panniers. 

"  I  say,  they  are  awfully  stunning  though,  you  know,  Honoria," 
he  said  rather  breathlessly  as  he  came  up  to  her. 

"Very  soul  -  satisfying,  aren't  they,  Dick?"  she  replied. 
"  Richard  foresaw  as  much.  That  is  why  he  got  them  for 
you." 

"  If  I  put  them  down  do  you  suppose  they'll  follow  ?  Carry- 
ing them  does  make  my  arms  ache." 

"  Oh,  they'll  follow  fast  enough,"  Honoria  said. 

He  lowered  the  puppies  circumspectly  on  to  the  gravel. 

"  They'll  be  whoppers  when  they're  grown,"  he  remarked. 

"  What  shall  you  call  them  ?  " 

"  Adam  and  Eve  I  think,  because  they're  the  first  of  my  lot. 
They're  pedigree  dogs — and  later  I  may  want  to  show,  don't 
you  see." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  Honoria  said. 

He  came  close  to  her,  putting  his  face  up  half  shyly  to  be 
kissed.  Then  as  young  Lady  Calmady,  somewhat  ghostly  in 
her  trailing,  white,  evening  dress,  bent  her  charming  head,  the 
boy,  suddenly  overcome  with  the  manifold  excitements  of  the 
day,  flung  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Oh  !  oh  ! "  he  gasped,  "  how  awfully  ripping  it  is  to  be  back 
here  again  with  you  and  Cousin  Richard  and  Aunt  Katharine  ! 
I  wish  number-four  dormitory  would  get  measles  the  middle  of 
every  term  ! — Only  I  forgot — perhaps  I  ought  not  to  touch 
you,  Honoria,  after  messing  about  with  the  dogs.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  said. 

"  But,  Honoria," — he  rubbed  his  cool  cheek  against  her  bare 
neck — "I  say,  don't  you  think  you  might  come  and  see  me,  just 
for  a  little  weeny  while,  after  I'm  in  bed  to-night?" 

And  young  Lady  Calmady,  thus  coaxed,  held  the  slight  figure 
close.  She  had  a  very  special  place  in  her  heart  for  this  small 
Dick,  who  in  face,  and  as  she  hoped  in  nature  also,  bore  such 
comfortaljlc  resemblance  to  that  elder  and  altogether  well- 
beloved  Dick,  who  was  the  delight  of  her  life. 

"Yes,  dear,  old  chap,  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "Only  it  must 
really  be  for  a  little  weeny  while,  because  you  must  go  to  sleep. 
I'.y  the  way,  who's  going  to  valet  you  these  holidays?  Clara 
or  I-'aulstich  ?  " 


6i4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh,  neither,"  the  boy  answered.  "  I  think  I'm  rather  old 
for  women  now,  don't  you  know,  Honoria." — At  which  statement 
she  laughed,  his  cheek  being  again  tucked  tight  into  the  turn  of 
her  neck.  "  I  shall  have  Andrews  in  future.  I  asked  Cousin 
Richard  about  it.  He's  a  very  civil-mannered  fellow,  and  he 
knows  about  yachts  and  things,  and  he  says  he  likes  being  up 
before  five  o'clock." 

"Does  he?  Excellently  veracious  young  man!"  Honoria 
remarked. 

But  thereupon,  exuberance  of  joy  demanding  active  expres- 
sion, the  boy  broke  away  with  a  whoop  and  set  off  running. 
The  puppies  lolloped  away  at  his  heels.  And  young  Lady 
Calmady — whom  such  giddy  fancies  still  took  at  times,  notwith- 
standing nearly  three  years  of  marriage — flew  after  the  trio,  the 
train  of  her  dress  floating  out  behind  her  to  most  admired 
extravagance  of  length  as  she  skimmed  along  the  path.  Fair 
lady,  boy,  and  dogs  disappeared,  with  sounds  of  merriment,  into 
the  near  garden-hall ;  reappeared  upon  the  terrace,  bearing  down, 
but  at  sobering  pace,  upon  the  occupants  of  the  chairs  set  at  the 
end  of  it.  One  man  rose  to  his  feet,  a  tall,  narrow,  black  figure. 
The  other  remained  seated.  The  light  shining  forth  from  the 
great  bay-window  of  the  hall  touched  the  little  group,  conferring 
a  certain  grandeur  upon  the  graceful,  white-clad  Honoria.  Her 
satin  dress  shimmered  as  she  moved.  There  was,  as  of  old,  a 
triumph  of  high  purity,  of  freedom  of  soul,  in  her  aspect.  Her 
voice  came,  with  a  fine  gladness  yet  soft  richness  of  tone, 
across  that  intervening  triangular  space  of  sloping  turf  upon 
which  terrace  and  troco-ground  alike  looked  down.  The 
nightingale,  who  had  fallen  silent  during  the  skirmish,  took  up 
his  passionate  singing  again,  and  was  answered  delicately,  a  song 
not  of  the  flesh  but  of  the  spirit,  by  the  bird  from  across  the 
valley. 

Katherine  Calmady  stood  solitary,  watching,  listening,  her 
hands  folded  rather  high  on  her  bosom.  The  caressing  suavity 
of  the  summer  night  enfolded  her.  And  remembrance  came  to 
her  of  another  night,  nearly  four-and-thirty  years  ago,  when, 
standing  in  this  same  spot,  she,  young,  untried,  ambitious  of 
unlimited  joys,  had  felt  the  first  mysterious  pangs  of  mother- 
hood, and  told  her  husband  of  that  new,  unseen  life  which  was  at 
once  his  and  her  own.  And  of  yet  another  night,  when,  after 
long  experience  of  sorrow,  solitude,  and  revolt,  her  husband  had 
come  to  her  once  again ;  but  come,  even  as  the  bird's  song  came 
from  across  the  valley,  etherealised,  spiritualised,  the  same  yet 
endowed   with   qualities   of  unearthly  beauty  —  and   how   that 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  615 

strange  and  exquisite  communion  with  the  dead  had  fortified  her 
to  endure  an  anguish  even  greater  than  any  she  had  yet  known. 
She  had  prayed  that  night  that  she  might  behold  the  face  of  her 
well-beloved,  and  her  prayer  had  been  granted.  She  had  prayed 
that,  without  reservation,  she  might  be  absorbed  by  and  con- 
formed to,  the  Divine  Will.  And  that  prayer  had,  as  she  humbly 
trusted,  been  in  great  measure  granted  also.  But  then  the  Divine 
Will  had  proved  so  very  merciful,  the  Divine  Intention  so  wholly 
beneficent,  there  was  small  credit  in  being  conformed  to  either  ! 
Katherine  bowed  her  head  in  thanksgiving.  The  goodness  of 
the  Almighty  towards  her  had  been  abundant  beyond  asking  or 
fondest  hope. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  gracious  meditation  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps — measured,  a  little  weary  perhaps — approaching  her. 
She  looked  up  to  see  Julius  March.  And  a  point  of  gentle 
anxiety  pricked  Katherine.  For  it  occurred  to  her  that  Julius 
had  failed  somewhat  in  health  and  in  energy  of  late.  She 
reproached  herself  lest,  in  the  interest  of  watching  those  vigorous, 
young  lives  so  dear  to  her,  participating  in  their  schemes,  bask- 
ing in  the  sunshine  of  their  love,  she  had  neglected  Julius 
and  failed  to  care  for  his  comfort  as  she  might.  To  those  that 
have  shall  be  given — even  of  sympathy,  even  of  strength.  In 
that  there  is  an  ironical  as  well  as  an  equitable  truth ;  and  she 
was  to  blame  perhaps  in  the  ironical  application  of  it.  It 
followed,  therefore,  that  she  greeted  him  now  with  a  quickening 
both  of  solicitude  and  of  affection. 

"  Come  and  pace,  dear  Julius,  come  and  pace,"  she  said,  "  as 
in  times  past.  Yet  not  wholly  as  in  the  past,  for  then  often  I 
must  have  distressed  and  troubled  you,  since  my  pacings  were 
too  often  the  outcome  of  restlessness  and  of  unruly  passion,  while 
now  " — 

Katherine  broke  off,  gazing  at  the  little  company  gathered 
upon  the  terrace. 

"Surely  they  are  very  happy?"  she  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

And  he,  smiling  at  his  dear  lady's  incapacity  of  escape  from 
her  fixed  idea,  replied  : — 

"  Yes,  very  surely." 

Katherine  tied  the  white,  lace  coif  she  wore  a  little  tighter 
beneath  her  chin. 

"In  their  happiness  I  renew  that  of  my  own  youth,"  she  said 
gently,  "  as  it  is  granted  to  few  women,  I  imagine,  to  renew  it. 
But  I  renew  it  with  a  reverence  for  them  ;  since  my  own  hapi)iness 
was  plain  sailing  enough,  obvious,  incontestable,  whilst  theirs  is 
nobler,  and  rises  to  a  iiighcr  plane.     For  its  roots,  after  all,  are 


6i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

planted  in  very  mournful  fact,  to  which  it  has  risen  superior, 
and  over  which  it  has  triumphed." 

But  he  answered,  jealous  of  his  dear  lady's  self-depreciation  : — 

"  I  can  hardly  admit  that.  To  begin  in  unclouded  promise 
of  happiness,  to  decline  to  searching  and  unusual  experience  of 
sorrow,  and  then,  by  self-discipline  and  obedience,  to  attain 
your  present  altitude  of  tranquillity  and  assurance  of  faith,  is 
surely  a  greater  trial,  a  greater  triumph,  than  to  begin — as  they — 
with  difficulties,  with  much,  I  admit,  to  overcome  and  resist,  but 
to  succeed  as  they  are  succeeding  and  be  granted  the  high  land 
of  happiness  which  they  even  now  possess  ?  They  are  young, 
fortune  smiles  on  them.     Above  all,  they  have  one  another  " — • 

"Ah  yes!"  she  said,  "they  have  one  another.  Long  may 
that  last.  It  is  a  very  perfect  marriage  of  true  minds,  as  well 
as  true  hearts.  I  had,  and  they  have,  all  that  love  can  give," 
— Lady  Calmady  turned  at  the  end  of  the  walk.  "  But  it 
troubles  me,  as  a  sort  of  emptiness  and  waste,  dear  Julius,  that 
you  have  never  had  that.  It  pains  me  that  you,  who  possess 
so  noble  a  power  of  disinterested  and  untiring  friendship,  should 
never  have  enjoyed  that  other,  and  nearer,  relation  which  tran- 
scends friendship  even  as  to-morrow's  dawn  will  transcend  in 
loveliness  the  chastened  restfulness  of  this  evening's  dusk." 

Katherine  moved  onward  with  a  certain  sweet  dignity  of 
manner. 

"  Tell  me— is  she  still  alive,  Julius,  this  lady  whom  you  so 
loved  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  God,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  have  never  tried  to  elude  that  vow  which — as  you 
once  told  me — you  made  long  ago  before  you  knew  her  ?  " 

"  Never,"  he  replied.  "  Without  it  I  could  not  have  served 
her  as  I  have  been  able  to  serve  her.  I  am  wholly  thankful 
for  it.  It  made  much  possible  which  must  have  otherwise 
been  impossible." 

"  And  have  you  never  told  her  that  you  loved  her — even 
yet?" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  because,  had  I  told  her,  I  must  have 
ceased  to  serve  her.  I  must  have  left  her,  Katherine,  and  I  did 
not  think  God  required  that  of  me." 

Lady  Calmady  walked  on  in  silence,  her  head  a  little  bent. 
At  the  end  of  the  path  she  stood  a  moment,  listening  to  the 
answering  songs  of  the  two  nightingales. 

"Ah!"  she  said  softly,  "how  greatly  I  have  under-rated 
the  beauty  of  the  dusk  !  To  submit  to  dwell  in  the  border- 
land, to  stand  on  the  dim  bridge  thus  between  day  and  night. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  617 

demands  perhaps  the  very  finest  courage  conceivable.  You 
have  shown  me,  Juhus,  how  exquisite  and  holy  a  thing  it  is. — 
And,  as  to  her  whom  you  have  so  faithfully  loved,  I  think,  could 
she  know,  she  would  thank  you  very  deeply  for  never  telling  her 
the  truth.  She  would  entreat  you  to  keep  your  secret  to  the 
end.  But  to  remain  near  her,  to  let  her  seek  counsel  of  you 
when  in  perplexity  or  distress ;  to  talk  with  her  both  of  those 
you  and  she  love,  and  have  loved,  and  of  the  promise  of 
fair  things  beyond  and  above  our  present  seeing — pacing  with 
her  at  times — even  as  you  and  I,  dear  friend,  pace  together  here 
to-night  amid  the  restrained  and  solemn  beauty  of  the  dusk. 
Would  she  not  do  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough  that  you  have  done  it  for  her,  Katherine," 
he  answered.  "  With  your  ruling  I  am  wholly,  unendingly 
content." 

"  Perhaps  Richard  and  Honoria's  dear  works  of  mercy  and 
the  noonday  tide  of  energy  which  flows  through  the  house,  have 
caused  us  to  see  less  of  each  other  than  of  old,"  Lady  Calmady 
continued  with  a  charming  lightness.  "That  is  a  mistake 
needing  correction.  The  young  to  the  young,  dear  Julius. 
You  and  I,  who  go  at  a  quieter  pace,  will  enjoy  our  peaceful 
friendship  to  the  full.  I  shall  not  tire  of  your  company,  I 
promise  you,  if  you  do  not  of  mine.  Long  may  you  be  spared 
to  me.     God  keep  you,  most  loyal  friend.     Good-night." 

Then  Lady  Calmady,  deeply  touched,  yet  unmoved  from  her 
altitude  of  thankfulness  and  calm,  musing  of  many  matters  and 
of  the  working  out  of  them  to  a  beneficent  and  noble  end,  slowly 
went  the  length  of  the  terrace  to  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
of  the  garden-hall,  Richard  still  sat.  As  she  came  near  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Dear,  sweet  mother,"  he  said,  "  how  I  like  to  see  you  walk 
in  that  stately  fashion,  the  whole  of  you — body,  mind,  and  spirit, 
somehow  evident — gathered  up  within  the  delicious  compass  of 
yourself!  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  anything,  I  remember 
that.  When  I  watched  you  it  always  made  me  feel  safe.  It 
seemed   more    like    music    heard,   somehow,   than    something 


seen." 


"Dickie,  Dickie,"  she  exclaimed,  flushing  a  little,  "don't 
make  me  vain  in  my  old  age  !  " 

"  But  it's  true,"  he  said.  "  And  why  shouldn't  one  tell  the 
pretty  truths  as  well  as  the  plain  ones? — Isn't  it  a  positively 
divine  night?  Look  at  the  moon  just  clearing  the  toj)  of  the 
firs  there  !  It  is  good  to  be  alive.  Mother — may  I  say  it? — I 
am  very  grateful  to  you  fur  having  brought  me  into  the  world." 


6i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Ah  !  but,  my  poor  darling" —  Kathcrine  cried. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "put  that  out  of  your  dear  head  once 
and  for  all.  I  am  grateful,  being  as  I  am ;  grateful  for  every- 
thing, it  being  as  it  is.  I  don't  believe  I  would  have  anything 
—  not  anything  —  save  those  four  years  when  I  left  you  — 
altered,  even  if  I  could.  I've  found  my  work,  and  it  enlarges 
its  borders  in  all  manner  of  directions  ;  and  it  prospers.  And  I 
have  money  to  put  it  through.  And  I  have  that  boy.  He's  a 
dear,  little  chap — and  it  is  wonderfully  good  of  Uncle  Roger  and 
Mary  to  give  him  to  me.  But  he's  getting  a  trifle  too  fond  of 
horses.  I  can't  break  poor,  old  Chifney's  heart ;  but  when  his 
days  are  numbered,  those  of  the  stables — as  far  as  training 
racers  goes — are  numbered  likewise,  I  think.  I'll  keep  on  the 
stud  farm.  But  I  grow  doubtful  about  the  rest.  I  wish  it  wasn't 
so,  but  so  it  is.  Sport  is  changing  hands,  passing  from  those 
of  romance  into  those  of  commerce. — Well,  the  stables  served 
their  turn.  They  helped  to  bring  me  through.  But  now 
perhaps  they're  a  little  out  of  the  picture." 

Richard  drew  her  hand  nearer  and  kissed  it,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  and  looking  up  at  her. 

"  And  I  have  you  " —  he  said,  "  you,  most  perfect  of  mothers. 
— And — ah  !  here  comes  Honoria  ! " 


PRINTED    BV    MORRISON    AND   GIBB    LIMITED,    BDINBURGH 


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